THE AMERICAN DRAMA 

No. I. 



THE 



SPANI8H WIFE 



IN PrVE ACTS 



BY 



SAMUEL M.'^SMITOKEB 

(op the new YORK BAB.) 



WITH A MEMOIR AND PORTRAIT 
OP 

EDWIN EOREEST, Esq. 



NEW- YORK : 
WM. TAYLOR & CO., 18 Ann- Street. 

BALTIMORE, MD. : 
WM. & HENRY TAYLOR, Sun Iron Buildings. 

1854. 
PRICE 25 CENTS. 

J". J. Reed, Printer. 1G Spruce- Street. 



PROSPECTUS 

OF 

THE AMEEICAN DRAMA: 

A Series of Plays by American Authors. 



The Subscribers, publishers of the "Modern Standard 
Drama," aware of the great difficulty experienced by Ameri- 
can dramatic authors, in bringing their productions before the 
public, either on the Stage, or through the Press, propose to 
aid them by the publication of a serial work, with the above 
title. 

This publication is to consist solely of plays written by 
American authors, which have either been performed or not, as 
the case may be. The publishers therefore invite American 
authors to send them their Plays, which will be submitted to a 
committee of literary gentlemen, consisting of three ; a major- 
ity of whom are to decide upon each manuscript which is sub- 
mitted to them. 

If they approve the Play, it will be printed in the series at 
the publishers' expense. If a majority reject it, yet if one of 
the committee approve the play, such play will be published in 
the series, at the author's expense. The nett proceeds of each 
play are to belong to the person at whose expense the play may 
be published. 

Each Number of ^* The American Drama" will be accompa- 
nied by a Memoir and Portrait of some distinguished Ameri- 
can actor, or dramatic author; pubhshed in a style precisely 
similar to the present Number. The uniform price of each 
Number, including the Portrait, is 25 cents ; with the regular 
discount to the trade. 

WILLIAM TAYLOR & CO 

No. 18 Ann-street. 





.Miulfni Slaiuliu-J l)r,i!„u 






ERRATA 

'B''6'h'T'"'-««''otto:„,for„,o«tr . 

■55, 6th « ;; " afteTtftT^"'"^^- 

l,Z 'r «:- top, t\rel-fc..«. 

W, 5th « „ ; for^otn^o,'"?- 



^ 



THE AMERICAN DRAMA. 

No. I. 



1 



THE 



SPANISH WIFE 



IN FIVE ACTS. 
BY >^ 

SAMUEL M. SMUCKER. 

(of the >fEW YOnK BAR.) 



WITH A MEMOIR AND PORTRAIT 

OF 

EDWIN FORREST, Esq. 



NEW- YORK: 

WM. TAYLOR & CO., 18 Ann-Street. 

BALTIMORE, MD. : 
WM. & HENRY TAYLOR, Sun Iroa Buildings. 

1854. 



^^H OF C0/V5^^^ 






ea^ 



Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1853, by 
WILLIAM TAYLOR & CO 
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for 
the Southern District of New York. 



TMP96-u07i75 



MEMOIE 

OP 

EDWIN FORREST ESQ. 

WRITTENFOR NO. I. OF "THE AMERICAN DRAM A."* 
BY SAMUEL M. SMUCKER. 



Several generations had passed away after the first settlement 
of America, before a Theatre existed on the new continent. It was 
as late as 1752 that, at Williamsburg, Va., the Drama obtained a 
feeble birth in the land of Columbus. The first American play- 
ever performed upon our shores was a Comedy, styled " The Con- 
trast,^^ which was produced in April, 1786, at the "Board Alley 
Theatre," in New York. From that period until the present, the 

* The publishers of ''The American Drama," deeming that a Memoir 
of Edwin Forrest would be an appropriate introduction to such a 
work, invited the present writer to prepare it. Though a stranger, 
personally, to the distinguished Tragedian, yet he undertook the task, 
relying upon the materials to be obtained from various published 
sources, and such other assistance as might be derived from gentlemen 
who were more intimately acquainted with the subject, H^ lias, 
therefore, devoted his leisure to the work ; has examined, with some 
minuteness, the public journals ; and has also received very impor- 
tant and valuable assistance from several of Mr. Forrest's most inti- 
mate friends : so that we believe we may confidently assure the reader 
that all the leading and most interesting events of Mr. F.'s life and 
'areer, are here correctly and accurately stated, and may be implicit])^ 
relied upon as authentic. For the opinions expressed in this memoir 
of Mr. Forrest, as an artist and as a man, the writer is alone responsi- 
ble. He has herein exercised the privilege of a freeman,— the same 
which is respectfully accorded to tho reader. 



6 Mr.?.K!in OF 

accomplished votaries of Thcsbi^. have been grarlually increasing 
in numbers and in ability ; while her gorgeous temples have arisen 
all over the land, glittering with splendor, and rivalling in magnifi- 
cence the noblest theatrical structures of the old world. The 
amount and excellence of dramatic ability, in our land, have aug- 
mented in an equal proportion, until in this high and difficult walk 
of genius, America now proudly maintains her wonted excellence 
and dignity among the cultivated nations of the earth. 

In the Drama, as in everything else, the " manifest destiny" of 
America seems to be upward to the highest Empyrean. It is not 
alone among her statesmen, her divines, her philosophers, her 
jurists, or her soldiers, that she now boasts her proudest names. 
In the more unusual and difficult departments of the Fine Arts, in 
painting, in sculpture, and in dramatic representation, America has 
already produced artists, whose excellence is acknowledged by all 
the world, unhesitatingly and freely. Among the time-hallowed 
productions of ancient sculpture, which are now treasured up at 
Rome, the achievements of the chisel of a Powers, are admired 
with equal rapture. In the company of the great masters of paint- 
ing in Europe, a West hides no diminished head. And thus too, 
beside the colosal names of Garrick, Kemble, andKean, our youth- 
ful Republic proudly places that of her Forrest, and boldly chal- 
lenges for him a niche in the temple of histrionic fame, not lower 
or less distinguished. This claim is not one urged and forced upon 
the reluctant acquiesence of the world, by national partiality or 
preference. It is one, based upon indisputable merit, — upon merit 
so clear, so obvious, and so supreme, that it finds a ready acknow- 
ledgment among all intelligent and cultivated people. 

Edwin Forrest was born at Philadelphia, March 9th, 1806. 
His father was a native of Scotland, and a man of sterling integrity. 
He w^as an importer of Scottish goods j but becoming embarrassed 
in business, he obtained a situation in the U. S. Bank, in which he 
continued until its close. Afterward his friend, Stephen Girard, 
appreciating his personal merit, invited him to a place in the Gi- 
rard Bank, which position he retained until his death. 

The father of the great Tragedian first intended him for the 
church. He and his wife were devout persons, and tlieir son fre- 
quently accompanied them to their religions services. On their 



EDWIN FORREST. 



return, he occasionally edified, or amused his seniors by declaiming 
accurately from memory, long passages from the sermon they had 
just heard, precisely in the tone and manner of the clergyman.— 
This happy pulpit aptitude in their son, confirmed his parents in 
their pious purpose ; but the early death of his father, who left a 
large family in dependant circumstances, put an end at once, and 
apparently forever, to his prospects of advancement in any of the 
liberal professions. His father died deeply in debt. These obliga- 
tions, his son, in after years, when fortune had smiled upon him, 
entirely liquidated, with the proud feeling, that no one might say, 
his father owed aught to any man. 

The distinguished ornithologist, Wilson, was among the first to 
discover the remarkable talents of young Forrest for recitation. 
He selected appropriate passages for that purpose ; and as he was 
in the constant habit of visiting his father's family, he would on 
those occasions, listen to his recitations, and then reward him for 
their excellence, by presenting him with the plates of his great 
work, then passing through the press. 

Immediately after his father's death, young Forrest was placed 
in a ship chandler's shop in Philadelphia. His attendance at the 
elementary school, to which he had belonged, was thus at once sus- 
pended, and an end put not only to his literary advantages, but 
also apparently to all ambitious hopes. About this period a stroll- 
ing company of Thesbians opened an amateur theatre in Front-st, 
Philadelphia. The admission to the performances was gratis. 
The terms admirably suited the finances of young Forrest, who 
soon found himself, for the first time, within the precincts of a 
theatre. Here a new and sudden impulse was given to his thoughts 
and aspirations. He there first conceived the idea of becoming an 
actor. Fortunately nature had imbedded in his soul a precious 
gem of the purest and brightest water, which required only to be 
placed beneath the rays of a theatrical sun in order to send forth 
scintillations of unequalled brilliancy and splendor; a gem which 
was destined, in future years, to shed transcendant lustre on the 

American Stage. „ , , . ,r 

It was not long before young Forrest enrolled himself among 
this very troupe of youthful Roscii, and gave first vent to the 
growing impulses of his soul, for something nobler and better than 



8 MEMOIR OF 

the drudgery of a ship chandler's shop. His '• first appearance on 
any stage" was under very remarkable circumstances ; under cir- 
cumstances which may even be termed peculiar. The part as- 
signed him in this first cast, was that of a female ! It was Rosalia, 
in •' Rudolph, or the Robbers of Calabria." His own wardrobe 
furnished nothing appropriate to the part, and he was compelled 
to plunder that of his sister. Unhappily, the dress in question 
was too short for him, and the absurdity of his appearance on the 
stage may be readily imagined. The laughter of the audience 
compelled him immediately to retreat. It was thought that the 
unfortunate debutant had hid himself away in concealed mortifica- 
tion. The fact, however, was very different. As soon as the play 
was over, before the audience had deserted the theatre, he himself 
rang the bell — up went the curtain — and young Forrest rushed 
upon the stage, his dress bedaubed and striped with paint, so as to 
represent a harlequin, and he declaimed Goldsmith's Epilogue with 
such extraordinary appropriateness and eftect, that he was greeted 
with the most rapturous applause. His first appearance thus 
eventuated in a signal triumph, and confirmed his prediliction for 
the histrionic art. He retired that night, from his first perform- 
ance, the proud hero of the hour and of the occasion. 

His next performance was achieved under more dignified cir- 
cumstances. The interval of time he had improved by laborious 
study. Nature was his great teacher; for he had none beside to 
guide him. She had bestowed upon him, however, a vigorous 
constitution, a sweet and sonorous voice, and a powerful mind. — 
These advantages he carefully improved by self-culture, and was 
able, on the next occasion which offered, to undertake a much 
more elaborate task. 

Shortly after the preceding adventure, he was introduced by 
Co]. Swifc to the Walnut Street Theatre, Philadelphia, where he 
played in the characters of Young Norval. and Oct avian, Zaphora 
in Mahomet, and Frederic in " Lover's Vows." In each of these 
performances he was regarded as a youthful prodigy, and his eflbrts 
were hailed with great applause. At this period, it may be said, 
that his intention to become an actor was irrevocably fixed. 

In Sept., 1822, Messrs. Jones & Collins, who had just establish- 
ed Theatres at Cincinnati, Pittsburgh, and Lexington, arrived in 



EDWIN FORREST. V 

Philatklphia for the purpose of engaging actors for their western 
theatres. Mr. Foircst justly thought, that travel combined with 
study, would greatly improve him. He presented himself for a 
situation in the new company. He informed the managers frank- 
ly of his plans and wishes, gave them his reference, and stated his 
terms. He was desired to call the next day. As soon as he had 
left Mr. Jones remarked that there was something about the man- 
ners of young Forrest, so independent, so dignified, and yet withal 
so decorous, that he should be instantly engaged, and without 
even conferring with the persons to whom he had referred. He 
was accordingly engaged by them, at a small salary. This was his 
first engagement as a regular actor. His first manager was never 
forgotten ;— in Forrest's house, when in the zenith of wealth and 
fame, Jones found a home, and there he died. In health he was 
cherished, and in sickness he was nursed, with all the tenderness 
due to a father, and an esteemed benefactor. 

In pursuance of this, his first engagement, Mr. Forrest traveled 
westward. The company to which he belonged played three 
months at Pittsburg on their route. There he performed in 
Tragedy, Comedy, Farce and Ballet. His exertions in that city 
were rewarded with increasing applause. H-e then proceeded to 
Cincinnati, thence to Lexington ; and after leaving his first manager, 
he was engaged by Caldwell, to play at his theatre in New Or- 
leans. It need scarcely be said, that during this time his talents 
and his industry combined, enabled him to rise higher and higher 
in professional excellence. It was at New Orleans that his growing 
merit made him a universal favorite. After some time he was 
engaged by Gilfert, then manager of the Charlestown and Albany 
Theatres, to perform in these several cities. It was here that he 
was first thrown, professionally, in contact with the illustrious 
actor, Edmund Kean, and was cast as second to that " Star" in all 
his great parts. It is asserted, on good authority, that Mr. Kean 
frequently remarked, that during his travels through this country, 
he had met but one young man who promised to become, in future 
time, a great actor ; and that young man was Edwin Forrest. 

It was during the first visit of Mr. Forrest to the West, that he 
endured all the wants and vicissitudes incident to the career of 
the poor but aspiring actor. Though often reduced to poverty. 



10 MEMOIR OF 

it is narrated of him that he never run in debt. Yet it might be 
said of him : 

'• AYant, worldly want, that hungry, meagre fiend, 
Was at his heels, and chased him full in view." 

In illustration of this remark, it may be well to record an anec- 
dote which appertains to his Western experiences at this early 
period of his career. At one time he was so pressed by actual hun- 
ger, that he plucked and eat the raw corn of a wealthy Kentucky 
gentleman, who would doubtless have severely punished his free- 
dom had he detected him in this innocent,because necessary,depreda- 
tion. That same gentleman — when years had rolled away, and Mr. 
Forrest returned to the West again, an illustrious tragedian, with 
a world-wide reputation, honored and courted by all — that same 
gentleman then gave him a magnificent dinner, to which he invited, 
and obtained the presence of the most distinguished persons in the 
land. 

Under Gilfert, he played the leading business, except when 
" stars" appeared. With a quick and discriminating eye, Gilfert 
detected and appreciated the great value of Forrest ; but for his 
own profit wisely kept his own counsel. About this time the 
New York, now the Bowery Theatre, was projected; Gilfert was 
to become the manager, and his best card was Forrest. Gilfert 
knew well, that no stock actor in a minor theatre, however great 
a favorite he might become, could ever rise to fame without a 
metropolitan reputation. He possessed the native gold which only 
wanted the stamp of such an approval to make it current over the 
whole country. 

In July, 1826, in the interval between the closing of the Albany 
and the opening of the Bowery Theatre, Mr. Forrest appeared for 
the first time in New York, at the Park Theatre, for the benefit of 
Mr. Woodhull, a favorite stock actor of the day. The play select- 
ed was Othello. He came unheralded and unknown, and though 
the audience were delighted with the performance, yet it made no 
visible impression on the public. 

On Oct. 23, 182G, the Bowery Theatre opened, under the manage- 
ment of Gilfert. On the first Monday of Nov. following, Mr. 
Forrest made his first appearance there in Othello. In the first 



EDWIN FORREST. 



11 



act he is described as having been excessively nervous. In the 
ceoond act that defect was less obvious, and his self-command 
more apparent. In the succeeding acts, so marked, so original and 
so powerful was his execution of this difficult part, that the au- 
dience were most enthusiastic in their applause. His fame and 
success in New York were at once established. 

A distinguished literary gentleman, himself, at that time, editor 
of one of the leading journals of the day, and who was present on 
this occasion, informs us that the indications of high ability then 
displayed by Mr. Forrest were unmistakable. That he committed 
errors, even gross errors, could not be denied ; but that even his 
errors' were so peculiar and so original that they convinced every 
intelligent beholder that no ordinary man could have committed 
them ; in truth, that none but a most extraordinary man could or 
would have ventured them. 

It was during this engagement that an incident occurred, which 
served to illustrate the personal character of the man. In conse- 
quence of the rapid growth of his fame, and the crowded audiences 
that nightly attended to witness his performances, a rival manager 
approached Mr. F. with more advantageous offers. Mr. F. replied 
that he had engaged with Mr. Gilfertfor the season, and could not 
listen to his proposition. The manager replied, that as there was 
no written contract, he was not bound. " Sir," answered Mr. 
Forrest, " my word is as strong as any written contract !" It 
should be added, in justification of the manager's proposition, as 
well as to illustrate the great strength of Mr. F.'s sense of honor, 
that the former had heard the latter complain, that he had been 
cast in parts which he could not be justly called on to perform. 

Such was his popularity during this engagement, that he drew 
immense audiences ; and Gilfert actually lent him during this 
his first season, on frequent occasions, to other theatres, both in 
New York and Boston, at two hundred dollars per night ; he still 
paying Mr. F. twenty- eight dollars per week 1 This sort of specu- 
lation becoming known, and severely animadverted upon, the 
nvAUSiger generously increased his salary to fifty dollars per week! 
His professional position at that time, may be inferred from the 
remark made by the Boston Traveller, in reference to his per- 



12 MEMOIR or 

formanccs in tliiit city : " Mr. Forrest certainly improved on Mc- 
Cveadyy 

When this engagement closed, in the summer of 1827, Gilfert 
said to Forrest: ''I shall want 3^ou for the next season; but I 
suppose our terms must be a little different." '' Yes, sir." " What 
do you expect '?" ^I expect nothing, sir ; you have yourself fixed 
my value. You have found me to be worth $200 per night !" 
Gilfert, who had engaged him the first season for $28 per week, 
found it his interest to pay him for the season $200 per night, 
and engaged him for eighty nights. His receipts this season at the 
Bowery alone amounted $8,800. Thus, in one short year, the 
young artist who came to New York unheialded, unknown, and 
poor, by the irresistible force of his genius, had risen to high fame, 
wealth, and distinction. We believe that no parallel to success as 
sudden and great as this can be produced in the history of the 
American or any other Stage. 

After this period Mr. Forrest performed engagements in various 
cities throughout the Union. He was everywhere eagerly sought 
for; everywhere highly appreciated and applauded. He returned 
the following season to New York, and commenced a third engage- 
ment at the Bowery. Arriving at New York, he met a valued 
friend in the lobby of that theatre, upon whom he suddenly opened 
with the following startling declaration : — " Thank heaven, I am 
not worth a ducat?'' His friend eagerly inquired the meaning of 
an assertion so singular and so ambiguous ; for he knew Mr. F. 
had netted a large amount of money by his preceding engagements. 
Said Mr. F. : '' My mother and sisters were poor, and I have just 
purchased for them a house in Philadelphia; and all the balance 
of my funds I have invested there for their support. Thank hea- 
ven, I am not worth a ducat." And well might the noble, aspir- 
ing, and triumphant adventurer, whose honorable ambition had 
been already rewarded as it merited, — '' thank heaven" that he 
had been enabled to obtain the means of benefaction ; and that he 
possessed the exalted magnanimity to apply them in a way so 
pleasing and grateful to the noblest instincts of humanity. 

About 1830, his next offer of engagement in New York, was at 
the Park. The manager proposed to give him one-half of the 
hov.se, after expenses v.'ere paid, and a free benefit. During this 



EDWrx FORREST. . IJJ 

enjrasrcment, the Park Theatre held more money than it ever did 
belbie or since. During the two weeks of its continuance, Mr. F, 
received $5,500 independently of liis benefit; — a sum unequalled 
either by Kean, Cooke, or any of the great dramatic meteors of 
the age, who have successively glittered upon the boards of that 
theatre. 

In 1834, Mr. Forrest determined to visit Europe. He did not 
go abroad for the purpose of making a professional tour. lie went 
simply as a private gentleman, to enjoy the usual advantages of 
foreign travel ; to visit the celebrated cities and the historical lo- 
calities of the old w^orld ; and thus to enlarge his fund of general 
knowledge and information. He wished, by the careful study of 
the celebrated Works of art, which the treasures of Europe alone 
possessed, to improve himself in 

The younger of the sister arts, 
Where all their beauties blend. 

He addressed the audience at the Park Theatre immediately be- 
fore he sailed. He then declared that he was not going to Europe 
profess ion all 5^ ; that the applause of his own countrymen was suf- 
ficient for him ; that it ought to be enough for any man ; and that 
as for himself he desired nothing higher or better. Some of the 
most distinguished of his fellow-citizens honored him with a public 
dinner immediately previous to his departure, on July 25. 1834, at 
which Chancellor McGoun presided. On this occasion, which was 
graced with the presence of the first citizens of the land, Mr. F. 
was presented with a gold medal, as a tribute of their admiration. 
On the obverse was a bust of Mr. Forrest in profile, surrounded 
by the words, H'lstrioni Optimo, Edwino Forrest, Viro Praes- 
tanii ; and on the reverse, a figure of the Genius of Traged}', with 
the following appropriate quotation from the great bard of Avon : 
" Great in mouths oftcisest censure.''^ 

With these honorable indications of the respect and admiration of 
his countrymen, Mi'. Forrest sailed for Europe. He was absent 
nearly two years. He traveled over the length and breadth of the 
continent ; — from Edinburg to Rome, from St. Petersburg to 
Odessa. He saw and contemplated with the mature observation 
of enlightened and cultivated minds, all that was interesting, in- 



lA Mt::\ioii; i-f 

struclive. and memoraLle in the renowned scenes and associations 
of the old world. 

In the Fall of 1836 he returned to his ovvncoimtrj, though only 
for a short time. He had crossed the ocean \Yaste merely to fulfil 
the promise he had made previous to his departure for Europe to 
play at the Bowery. He soon returned again to England, Dur- 
ing his first visit, he had made the acquaintance of a lady, whose 
name has since become so widely associated with his own. To 
her he was married in June, 1837. 

During his second visit to England, which continued throughout 
one 3'ear, Mr. Forrest filled various engagements in the different 
leading theatres of the United Kingdom. He was everj^where le- 
ceived with the greatest applause. He rose at once to the highest 
pinnacle of professional fame, in the very home and favorite haunts 
of Garrick, Kemble, Kean, Cooke, and others. Scarcely one dis- 
senting voice among all the intelligent critics of that land, jarred 
discordantly upon the universal and harmonious chorus of piaise 
which greeted his performances. It was acknowledged hy the 
English press, and by the English public, that their greatest bard 
had at length received from America, an illustrator of his genius, 
as accomplished and as consummate as any ever produced among 
their own gifted countrymen. 

Thus loaded with the highest professional honors from the old 
world, he returned to his own country j and was immediately 
greeted, on his arrival, with a splendjd banquet, which was offered 
him by man}' of the most distinguished of his fellow-citizens at 
Philadelphia. 

This appears to be a proper place to notice the peculiarity of 
Mr. Forrest's professional career, which is worthy of special at- 
tention. 

At the early period of that career, he was impressed with the 
importance of fostering as much as was in his power, the growth 
of dramatic genius among his countrymen. He carried his nation- 
ality of feeling even further. He determined to offer a premium 
for the best American play, whose subject should be the American 
Indian. The result of this offer was the production of Metamora, 
by John A. Stone. The merits of this play, through the vivid and 
powerful represpntatioo of it by Mr. Forrest, have become familiar 



K.nvVIN rOHREST. ' 15 

to the world. Indeed, so remarkable and so exLraordinar}' is this 
part, in the hands of Mr. F., that we may safely predict that as 
the great original of Metamora, expired with King Philip, without 
his transmitting to any of his successors, either the grandeur or 
the sublimity of his nature ; so his imposing scenic existence will 
also perish with the mighty actor who personates him so admira- 
bly on the mimic stage.* 

* " Metamora" was the first of Mr. Forrest's prize plays. It was 
selected from among fourteen dramatic productions, by a committee, 
consisting of the following gentlemen, who were selected by Mr. P. 
for that purpose : — W. C. Bryant, Fitz Green Halleck, James Lawson, 
P. M. Wetmore, J. G. Brooks, and William Leggett, As no portion of 
this celebrated play, or of its appendages, has ever appeared in print, 
the reader will doubtless be interested by the j)erusal of the Prologue 
and Epilogue, the former from the pen of P. M. Wetmore, the latter 
from that of James Lawson, Esq. 

PROLOGUE TO METAMORA. 

Not from the records of Imperial Rome, 

Or classic Greece, the muses' chosen home, 

From no rich legends of the olden day. 

Our bard hath drawn the story of his play. 

Led by the guiding hand of genius on. 

He here hath painted nature on her throne ; 

His eye hath pierced the forest's shadowy gloom. 

And read strange lessons from a nation's tomb : 

Brief are the annals of that blighted race — 

These halls usurp a monarch's resting place ! 

Tradition's mist-enshrouded page alone 

Tells that an empire was— we know 'tis gone ! 

From foreign climes full oft the muse hath brought 
Her glorious treasures of gigantic thought ; 
And here beneath the witchery of her power, 
The eye hath poured its tributary shower. 
When modern pens have sought the historic page 
To picture forth the deeds of former age, 
O'er soft Virginia's sorrows ye have sighed, 
/Lnd dropt a tear when spotless beauty died. 



16 Memoir op 

In pursuance of his purpose to foster native genius, Mr. Forrest 
has offered premiums, at different times, for American plays ; and 

When Brutus cast his cloud aside to stand 
The guardian of the tyrant-trampled land ; 
When patriot Tell, his soil from thraldom freed, 
And bade the avenging arrow do its deed, 
Your bosoms answered with responsive swell, 
For freedom triumphed as the oppressor fell ! 

These were the melodies of humbler lyres, 
The lights of genius, yet withered his fires ; 
But when the master-spirit struck the chords, 
And inspiration breathed her burning words., 
When passion's self-stalked living o'er the stage, 
To melt with love, or rouse the soul to rage, 
TVhen Shakspeare led his bright creations forth. 
Waked the pale dead, or gave new beings birth — 
Breathless, entranced, ye heard the spell fraught line 
And felt the minstrel's power — almost divine ! 
While thus your plaudits cheer the stranger lay, 
Shall native bards in vain the field essay 1 
To-night we test the strength of native powers, 
Subject, and bard, and actor, all are ours. 
'Tis yours to judge if worthy of a name, 
And bid them live within the halls of fame ! 



EPILOGUE TO METAMORA. 

Before the bar of beauty, taste, and wit. 

This host of critics too, who throng the pit, 

A trembling bard, has been this night arraigned, 

And I am counsel in the cause retained. 

Here come I, then, to plead with guileless art. 

And speak less to the law, than to the heart. 

A native bard, a native actor too. 

Have drawn a native picture to your view ; 

In fancy that, bade Indian wrongs revive, 

"While this, embodied all as if alive. 

Rich plants are they of our own favored land. 

Your smiles, the sun, 'neath which their leaves expand. 



BDWIN FORREST. ' 17 

the result has been, that he has evoked into existence some drama- 
tic productions which do honor to the literature of thecountr3^ — 
Tfiese plays are Pelopidas, The Gladiator, and the Broker of 
Bogota, by Dr. Bird ; Caius Marius, by R. Penn Smith ; Jack 
Cade, by R. F. Conrad, and Mahomet, by Mr. Jliles. We doubt 
whether a similar array of dramatic productions can be pointed at 
which owed their existence to the liberality and nationality of 
feeling, of any other actor, either in England or America. 

In accordance with his purpose of building up an American 

Yet not that they are native do I plead, 

'Tis for their worth alone, I ask your mead. 

How shall I ask ye 1 Singly ? Then, I will ; 

But if I fail 1 Fail ! Let me try my skill. 

Sir, I know you ; I've often seen your face, 

And always seated in that selfsame place ; 

Now in your ear : — What think ye of the play ? 

" It hath some m^erit truly" — did you say 1 

" The tawny chief upborne on eagle wing, 

The Indxain forest scoured, like Indian king." 

See yon fair maid, the tear still dims her eye — 

And hearken, hear ye not her gentle 'sigh ? 

Ah ! these speak more than language can relat(-, 

The woe-fraught heart o'er Nameoke's fate : 

She tries us not by rigid rules of art. 

Her proof is feeling, and her judge, the heart. 

What dost thou say, thou bushy- whiskered beau 1 

He nods approval ;— whiskers are the go ! 

Who's he that sits the fourth bench from the stage 

There, in the pit ; why, he looks wondrous sage. 

He seems displeased, his lip denotes a sneer, 

Oh ! he's a critic, who looks so severe. 

Why, in his face I see the attic salt — 

A critic's merit is, to find a fault. 

What fault find you, sir 1 Eh 1 Or you, sir 1 None ! 

Then if the critic's mute, my cause is won. 

Yea by this burst of loud heart-felt applause, 

I know that I have gained my client's cause. 

Thanks that our great demerits you forgive, 

And bid our bard and Metamora live. 



18 MEMOlil OF 

Drama, Mr. Forrest publicly offered, last of ail, a premium of 
three thousand dollars for a play written by an American citizen, 
which would be well adapted to representation ; and promising 
one thousand dollars for that play among the number, (provided 
none realized his Jirsi intention,) which should possess the highest 
literary merit. In answer to this invitation, Mr F. received up- 
ward of seventy plays ! Each one of these he carefully read. — 
None of them answered his original design. He however awarded 
to Mr. G. H. Miles $1,000 for his play of Mahomet, already men- 
tioned; deeming it to be the best literary production in the col- 
lection.* The reader will not be surprised at the above statement 
if he is at all conversant with the nature of the subject. The produc- 
tion of a successful play,not only requires ample leisure and freedom 
from all care in reference to subsistence, during the process of 
composition; but also a more rare and difHcult combination of in- 
tellectual qualities than belong to most other species of composi- 
tion. First, there must be genius — the poet's heaven-born fire ; 
the grace and beauty of dramatic versification ; a familiarity with 
classical, historical, and mythological learning; the well trained 
powers of the practiced thinker and writer ; and a deep insight 
into the hidden springs of human action, feeling and passion; 
while other attainments less lofty or imposing are equally indis- 
pensable — a knowledge of stage effect; a constructive ability 
whereby to avoid impossible or absurd situations, which would 
violate the known relations of time and space ; the resources of 
inventive genius, which furnish constant novelties and striking 
surprises on the stage ; and an ability to intersperse the grave and 
gay, the solemn, the ludicrous, the pathetic, and the sublime, in 
judicious variety. To possess all these qualifications, falls only 
to the lot of the highest, and therefore the rarest, dramatic genius. 
If these and many other qualities are essential to the successful 
dramatist, need we wonder that so few succeed ? Need we be sur- 
prised that Mr. Forrest sought, in vain, among the seventy origi- 
nal plaj'S before him, for one in which he felt he could do himself, 
or his design justice ? 

* Mr. W. Gilniore Simmshas lately rewritten Shakspeare's Timon, 
for Mr. F., which, we are informed on good authority, will be pro- 
duced by him in New York, during the coming Spring, 1854. 



EDWIN FORREST. 19 

During Mr. Forrest's first season, after his return from England, 
of one hundred nights, his receipts were $33,500, His receipts 
from his engagements during the second season were $33,700. 

During the course of his pubhc career, Mr. Forrest has been in- 
vited, on several occasions, to become a candidate for political 
honors, and for a seat in Congress ; and that too under such cir- 
cumstances, as rendered his success not in the least degree pro- 
blematical. These honorable proposals, Mr. Forrest has invaria- 
bly declined, preferring to be known in no other public capacity 
or position than that which was strictly professional. But we 
know of no other member of his profession, however distinguish- 
ed, to whom similar offers of political promotion have ever been 
made. 

In the year 1838, Mr. Forrest was invited by the '' Democratic 
Republican Committee," of New York, to deliver an oration at the 
" Democratic Republican Celebration," of the sixtj^-second anni- 
versary of the independence of our country. He complied with 
this invitation, and delivered on July 4th an oration, remarkable 
for the purity of its diction, the originality and excellence of its 
sentiments, and the patriotic tone which pervades it. No one can 
peruse this oration without being impressed with the conviction 
that it is the production of the mind of a statesman ; and that if 
its author had not devoted himself to the stage, his " natural gifts" 
would have enabled him to become illustrious in the Senate Cham- 
ber. The complexion of Mr. F.'s political opinions may be infer- 
red from the following extract from this oration : 

" To Jefi'erson belongs, exclusively and forever, the high renown 
of having framed the glorious charter of American liberty. To 
his memory the benedictions of this and all succeeding times are 
due for reducing the theory of freedom to its simplest elements, 
and in a few lucid and unanswerable propositions, establishing a 
groundwork on which men may securely raise a lasting super- 
structure of national greatness and prosperity. But our fathers, 
in the august assemblage of 76, were prompt to acknowledge and 
adopt the solemn and momentous principles he asserted. With 
scarce an alteration — with none that affected the spirit and charac- 
ter of the instrument, and with but few that changed in the slight- 
est degree its verbal construction — they published that exposition 



20 MEMOIR OF 

of human rights to the world, as their Declaration of American 
Independence ; pledging to each other their lives, their fortunes, 
and their sacred honor, in support of the tenets it proclaimed. — 
This was the grandest, the most impoitant experiment ever under- 
taken in the histor}' of man. But they that entered upon it were 
not afraid of new experiments, if founded on the immutable prin- 
ciples of right, and approved by the sober convictions of reason. — 
There were not wanting then, indeed, as there are not wanting 
now, pale counsellors to fear, who would have withheld them from 
the course they were pursuing, because it tended in a direction 
hitherto untrod. But they were not to be deterred by the sha- 
dowy doubts and timid suggestions of craven spirits, content to be 
lashed forever round the saiiie circle of miserable expedients, per- 
petually trying anew the exploded shifts which had always proved 
lamentably inadequate before. To such men, the very name of 
experiment is a sound of horror. It is a spell which conjures up 
gorgons, hydras, and chimeras dire. They seem to know that all 
that is valuable in life — that the acquisitions of learning, the dis- 
coveries of science, and the refinements of art — are the result of 
experiment. It was experiment that bestowed on Cadmus those 
keys of knowledge with which we unlock the treasure-houses of 
immortal mind. It was experiment that taught Bacon the futility 
of the Grecian philosophy, and led him to that heaven-scaling me- 
thod of investigation and analysis, on which science has safely 
climbed to the proud eminence where now she sits, dispensing her 
blessings on mankind. It was experiment that lifted Newton 
above the clouds and darkness of this visible diurnal sphere, ena- 
bling him to explode the sublime mechanism of the stars, and 
weigh the planets in their eternal rounds. It was experiment that 
nerved the hand of Franklin to snatch the thunder from the ar- 
mory of heaven. It was experiment that gave this hemisphere to 
the world. It was experiment that gave this continent free- 
dom.''' 

We have now arrived at the period of BIr. McCready's second 
visit to the United States. On his arrival, Mr. Forrest waited on 
him ; invited him to his house ; and extended to him the most 
liberal hospitality. He neglected nothing to render the visit of the 
English tragedian agreeable, so far as lay in his power. In every 



EDWIN FOUKKST. 21 

way he sought to advance Mr. McCready's fame and interest. — 
How very cordial INIr. Forrest's tieatment of the latter gentleman 
was ; and how highly his kindness and courtesy were then appre- 
ciated, may be inferred from the following brief extract from a let- 
ter from Mrs. Catherine Francis McCready to Mr. Forrest dated 
London, Nov. 3, 1844, immediately after her husband's return to 
England : 

" Nothing has given me greater pleasure from America than that 
which the relation of the hospitality and kindness Mr. McCready 
has received from you, during his sojourn in New York, has com- 
municated. I only wish I had any means here of testifying my 
gratitude to you, for your great attention to him ; which has 
gmtified him very much, and which is one of the delightful things 
among the many, he will have to reflect upon, in remembering his 
visit to your great country." 

In 1845 Mr. Forrest made his second professional tour to Eng- 
land. He of course naturally expected that Mr. McCready would 
return, at least to some extent, the courtesies he had been willing 
to receive from him in this countr3^ Unhappily a very different 
feeling was at once manifest, on the part of that gentleman. Not 
the least mark of respect or civility did Mr. F. receive from his 
late friend and guest. Suddenly a mysterious opposition burst 
forth in the public prints against Mr. Forrest's performances. It 
was found that this opposition, at first, was confined to those pa- 
pers which were connected with Mr. McCready. The ^^ Exami- 
?zer". was especially bitter against Mr. Forrest j yet it was edited 
by John Forster, a particular and confessed friend of Mr. Mc- 
Cready, and one ever willing to obey his commands. Is it not a 
fair inference that if the feelings of Mr. McCready toward Mr. F. 
were those of ordinary courtesy, to sa}- nothing of consistent 
friendship, he would have forbidden his literary friend to belabor 
and abuse, in the most brutal manner, his professional brother? 
Yet instead of doing this, increasing rancor was exhibited by that 
journal during the whole of this visit of Mr. F. to England. And 
being thus led on, many other members of the English press fol- 
lowed in the ignoble race in accordance with the old maxim: — 
Latrante uno, latrat statim et alter canis* 



* One dog burking, another immediately joiu3 him. 



22 MEMOIR OF 

That paper did not rely on facts alone for its defamation, but 
with a laudable zeal to serve its friend and master, invented new 
readings for Mr. F. ; and even went so far as to condemn him for 
his manner of delivering certain passages which were not to be 
found in the parts which he performed, and which, consequently, he 
never uttered ! Thus Mr. Forrest soon had nearl}- the whole pack 
of the English press at his heels, with the exception of some few 
really independent journals. We may illustrate the just spirit and 
the literary sagacity of the latter, by quoting a single remark of 
one of them : — 

" It is refreshing now-a-days to see one of Shakspeare's plays 
(Lear), so brought before us; and we feel exceedingly obliged to 
Mr. Forrest for having reminded us of the palmy days of Kemble 
and Kean ; and when we add, that his Lear is equal in every re- 
spect to that of the two mighty tragedians, whose names are hal- 
lowed by the admirers of genius, we think we can scarcely bestow 
higher praise.' * 

During this visit Mr. F. unfortunately detected too many evi- 
dences of the professional jealousy which actuated his cidevant 
friend. He might have excused or disregarded the want of re- 
ciprocal courtesy. He could not but become deeply incensed at 
secret and groundless hostility. His own feelings became embit- 
tered, and he felt released from all further forbearance. In Edin- 
burg, McCready played Hamlet, and during the performance fa- 
vored the audience with a "pas de mouchoir,^^ which so outraged 
Mr. Forrest's sense of propriety, that he, happening to be present, 
expressed his repugnance by hissing. It was his 'protest against 
such outrageous desecration of the immortal bard f 

This one single sibilation (itself merely an authorized mode of 
expressing a professional judgment or opinion,) was the only, and 
quite excusable, retaliation inflicted by Mr, Forrest, in return for 
all the bitter hostility which he had suffered in England; — from 
Mr. jMcCready. solely because he was a hated rival ; — and from the 
English press, solely because he was an American Artist ! 

On this side of the water, Mr. Forrest's outrageous treatment 
was condemned by the universal censure of the community. The 

* Vide London Km, March dih, 1845. 

•{•This fact Mr. F. himself avowed in the London Times 



EDWIN FORREST. 25 

cause of it was too palpable to be unknown. Had he not been so 
loudly and generall}' applauded in England, during his previous 
tisit, a doubt might have hovered over and obscured the motive, 
and therefore the injustice of the brawling flood of censure which 
now overwhelmed him. America had expected better things of 
England. She had not so treated and repulsed her Kean and 
her Kemble, when, with shattered fame and fortune, they had 
swarmed hither as to a land of golden promise and fruition. Even 
McCready himself had fared far otherwise. 

Eight on the heels of these events, and as if to provoke an offen- 
sive contrast, or a just retaliation, Mr. McCready in 1849, traveled 
back again to the United States. His first appearance, we believe, 
was at Boston. He there made an uncalled for attack on Mr. 
Forrest, in a speech which he delivered before the curtain, in al- 
lusions so plain that none could fail to understand their import. 
Previous to this he had made an engagement to open at the Broad- 
way Theatre, in N. Y. He unscrupulously broke the engagement, 
fearing, as it was alleged, that that was Mr. Forrest's favorite do- 
main, and he should labor under disadvantages there. He had also 
been informed that Mr. F. had just concluded a very brilliant en- 
gagement in that theatre, and to play the same round of characters 
so soon again, in the same place, would prove less attractive to the 
public. He then entered into an engagement with Mr. Hackett, to 
play at the Astor Place Opera House, in New York. 

At Philadelphia, Mr. McCready, for the third time, made a very 
offensive and unprovoked allusion to Mr. Forrest, from before the 
curtain of the Arch-st. Theatre. Until this time the latter had 
said nothing — not a single word in public — in reference to these 
difficulties. He then published a card, briefly reviewing the merits 
of the case, and showing most conclusively, how offensive, injur- 
ious, and unjust, the whole career of Mr. McC. had been, in refer- 
ence to himself; and that so far from using his influence to or- 
ganize the same opposition against Mr. McC. here, which the lat- 
ter had arrayed against him in England — he had expressly forbid- 
den everything of the kind. 

Our limits will prevent us from pursuing the details of this 
controversy any further. It is sufficient to say, that the difficul- 
ties increased ; the feelings of the community unhappily became 



24 MEMOIR OP 

intensely excited — too much indeed for the preservation of public 
peace, however great the individual injuries inflicted might have 
been. The whole contest ended disastrously and fatally in the 
memorable riot which occurred on the 10th of May, 1849, at the 
Astor Place Opera House, on the occasion of Mr. McCready's 
performance there. 

He had appeared at that theatre a few evenings previous, on 
which occasion he had acted to dumb show and noise. A nume- 
rous audience had been aroused to retaliation by the unjust speeches 
which he had several times delivered against their distinguished 
and unoifending countryman. McCready thought he could never 
venture again before an American audience — but a card was got 
up, inviting him to play again, and offering him another hearing. 
This invitation brought him out once more. 

Much feeling of a national character — between Englishmen and 
Americans — had now crept into the contest ; and even much local 
social rancour between what were termed the " Silkstocking Gen- 
try" and the "Bowery Boys." These were somewhat new issues 
in this contest ; but they served powerfully to add intensity to the 
existing hostility, and to magnify its deplorable results. But 
whatever were the consequences of this private dispute, no one ever 
ventured to charge Mr. Forrest with having, in any way approved 
or excited the indignation of the public against Mr. McCready. — 
But so far as he could influence public events, he endeavored to 
dissuade from all acts of violence, how great soever the affronts he 
himself, and the nation, through him might have received. 

And on the public trials which followed this unhappy night, not 
a voice testified one word to connect Mr. F. in any way with the 
results. His character was untouched, and to this the journals 
of the day bear ample testimony. 

The next event which brought Mr. Forrest prominently before 
the public, was his divorce. The trial ended in January, 1852. 
For two years previous, he had not pursued his profession. His 
mind was distressed, and he confined himself to the society of his 
most intimate friends. In reference to his course in this matter, it 
may be truly said : "Naught he did in hate; but all in honor." 
It does not comport with the purpose of this memoir to enter into 
the details of this celebrated case. But it is a fact universally con- 



EDWIN FORREST. 25 

ceded, that the verdict rendered in reference to it excited at once 
the astonishment and the surprise of the whole community. — 
Every one is familiar with the advantage which a lady invariably 
possesses before a jurj^, in cases of this description ; but we believe 
that rarely, in the whole career of justice, or rather of injustice, 
has an instance occurred in which the clearest force of evidence and 
the universal conclusion of intelligent and impartial minds, were 
so completely trampled under foot, as in this instance. And we 
may venture the assertion, that so settled has now become the 
public sentiment against the verdict which stands recorded in that 
case, that if it were again to be made the subject of investigation, 
even by a jury, the result would be precisely the reverse of that 
produced in the first instance. We herein state the unbiassed con- 
clusion to which we have been brought respecting this vexata 
quoBSiio by a more thorough examination of facts than most per- 
sons have the opportunity of devoting to the subject. 

On the 9th of February, Mr. Forrest appeared at the Broadway 
Theatre immediately after the verdict. Never had a public au- 
dience given such a reception to a public favorite. The applause 
was immense ; through the parquette and boxes were exhibited 
elegant banners, with expressive mottos, such as : " This is the 
verdict of the People." At the end of the performance Mr. F. was 
called before the curtain. The whole stage was immediately 
covered with wreaths and bouquets of various graceful devices. At 
length, when the applause had subsided, he spoke, and among 
other appropriate remarks, said : " I thought my path was covered 
with thorns ; but I find you have strewed it with roses." He re- 
ceived every possible evidence of the public sympathy and appro- 
bation. 

This engagement was the longest as well as the most memorable 
ever recorded in the history of the stage. It continued till the 15th 
of April, being sixty- nine successive nights. The house — one of 
the largest and most magnificent in America — was crowded nightly 
to the utmost of its capacity, and with audiences whose enthusiasm 
remained unabated. 

On the fiftieth night of this engagement, there was a jubilee. The 
theatre was illuminated in front ; an appropriate transparency was 
exhibited ; many persons in the neighborhood, sympathizing with 



26 MEMOIR Of 

the general feeling, illuminated their dwellings. Inside there was 
one continued triumph for the great actor, while the street was 
crowded by admiring thousands who could not gain admittance. 

After playing at Philadelphia and elsewhere, Mr. Forrest re- 
turned to New York, and commenced another engagement at the 
Broadway, on the 20th of Sept. following, where he played for 
thirty successive nights, in consequence of the previous arrange- 
ments of the manager. On the 21st of Feb., 1853, he began an- 
other engagement at this theatre, which lasted seventy-three nights, 
though with an interval, after the first five nights, of one week, 
which Mr. F. devoted to witnessing the inauguration of President 
Pierce. Thus from Nov., 1826, to Oct., 1853, during a period of 
twenty- seven years, he has pursued his professional career; and 
has successfully maintained his first and indisputable position as 
the greatest living high priest of Thesbis. 

As the representative of Shakspeare, Mr. F. stands unrivalled in 
the poet's four greatest productions : Hamlet, Lear, Othello, and 
Macbeth. But his range of characters are very various, compris- 
ing whatever is really great, in the wide sphere of the tragedian. 
As Richard III., Brutus, and Anthony in " Julius Cgesar," Shj- 
lock, lago, Damon, Richelieu, Virginius, Pizarro, Tell, Jafiier, Ber- 
tram, and in many other of the best plays in the language, he is 
unsurpassed. 

It is scarcely necessary to dwell upon his qualities as an actor, 
for nearly all, whom such an exposition might interest, have seen 
and enjoyed his performances. Nature bestowed on him in per- 
fection, every requisite mental and physical qualification. His 
■figure is one of dignified and manly proportions. His eye is full 
of fire and expression. His voice is the most remarkable for com- 
pass, for melody, and for power, of any on the stage. This may be 
illustrated by reference to his nuciation of the most celebrated 
passages of Shakspeare. We may cite an example : 
Duncan is in his grave: 

After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well ; 

Treason has done his worst, nor steel, nor poison. 

Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing 

Can touch him further !* 

* Macbeth, Act. III., Scene II. 



EDWIN FORREST. 27 

Whoever has heard Mr. Forrest utter these lines, will never for- 
get it, while memory remains the warder of his brain ! Mr. For- 
rest's style is his own. Like every other great original, he has 
countless imitators, of various grades of excellence, who have pro- 
fited, in different degrees, by the careful study of their distinguish- 
ed model. 

Every lover of the Drama will hope that the day may be far 
distant when his professional displays will terminate; and the 
plaudits of his admiring countrymen ring upon his ears for the la^t 
time. Whenever that event occurs, and he ceases to be a hero of 
the actual present, his memory will become enshrined in the hearts 
of myriads, as being connected with the most inspiring and exalted 
moments of their lives ; and they will look back at this great star 
of scenic splendor, and recall with delight those varied and intense 
emotions, which, with magic power, he had often produced within 
them, when portraying so impressively, the joys and sorrows, the 
hopes and fears, the grandeurs and the vicissitudes of humanity.. 

Thus, by the mighty actor wrought 

Illusion's perfect triumphs come ; 
Verse ceases to be airy thought, 

And sculpture to be dumb ! 



TO 

MADAME JULIE DE MARGUERITTES. 

Madame : — Not less as a tribute of admiration for one of the most 
successful Dramatists of this country, than as a token of personal 
friendship and esteem, I heg leave to dedicate to you the following 
play. With sentiments of profound regard, 

I remain your obd't. serv't., 

SAMUEL M. SMCJCKER. 
New-York, Nov. 2, 1853. 



DEAMATI8 PERSONS 



James /., {King of England.) 

Prince Charles, (his son.) 

Duke of Buckingliam, '\ 

Sir William Sidriey. | 

Lord Rochester. )■ English Courtiers., 

Sir Richard Graham. | 

Lord Cecil. J 

Do7i Alfonso, {Laura^s father.) 

Don Pedro, {Laura's brother.) 

Don Lorenzo, } c^ • i ^^ jf 

Marquis Toledo, \ ^P^""''^ Grandees. 

Philip II. {King of Spain.) 

Valesquez, {artist.) 

Leon, {Servant of Alfonso.) 

Courtiers and Officers. 

A Page. 

Donna Laura 

Donna Teresa, {her mother.) 

Donna Constanza. 



8TAGIE MEMORANDA. 



R. means Right; L. Ijeft ; R. D. Right Door; L. D. Left Door ,• 
S, E. Second Entrance; U. E. Upper E/itrajice ; M. D. Middle Door; 
C. E. Centre Entrance. 



PEEFACE 



The following play is founded upon some incidents of the well- 
known Tisit of Prince Charles and the Duke of Buckingham to 
Madrid, in A. D. 1623, for the purpose of negotiating a matrimo- 
nial alliance between that Prince, the son of James L, the reigning 
sovereign of England, and the Infanta, daughter of Philip II. The 
young noblemen who accompanied the Duke to JVIadrid. on that 
occasion, were the flower and pride of the English noliility. They 
were selected by that haughty and splendid courtier, in consequence 
of their superior external qualities. All of them were remarkable 
for their personal beauty, their accomplishments, and their air de 
cour. Among even these, Sir William Sidney was unrivalled and 
supreme. 

A very few of the incidents of this play may be found in the 
authentic or romantic records, of that singular expedition ; though 
so many and such great additions have been interwoven into the 
plot, as to render it, in a great measure, entirely original and ima- 
ginative; and whether the work be worthy of the impartial critic's 
praise or blame, one thing is not disguised, — that the piece has been 
the fruit of considerable, though very agreeable, exertion. The 
labor limae has been as laborious as were the original conception 
and execution. The author has introduced one slight anachronism 
m the play, though it does not affect the continuity of the plot, 
which may be regarded as excusable under the circumstances. — 
Reference is made to the song put in the mouth of Sir Sidney, in 
Third Act. 

Of the personages referred to in the succeeding pages, the most 
important, in an historical point of view, and the only one whose 
personal career it may be interesting to recount, was the celebrated 
George Villicrs, Duck of Buckingham. lie was the unworthy fa- 
vorite of both James I. and Charles I. His chief claims to their 
admiration, and the principal merits which secured him their re- 
gard, were the unusual elegance of his manners, and the remarka- 
ble beauty of his person. 



2Q PREFACt:. 

King James first elevated this man through all the gradations 
of the peerage, until he conferred upon him almost regal power. 
His licentious and unprincipled conduct, in his high station, soon 
rendered him odious to the whole nation. His dishonorable be- 
haviour in Paris, whither he had been sent to celebrate the mar- 
riage of King Charles I. with the daughter of Louis XIIT.. so dis- 
gusted that monarch, that he afterward refused to receive Buck- 
ingham as the English Ambassador at his court. It was in re- 
venge for this deserved repulse, that he incited the Protestants of 
Rochelle to an useless and disastrous war against that monarch. 
His own conduct during this conflict, disgraced both himself, his 
king, and the nation ; so that immediately on his return, the Par- 
liament solemnly petitioned the king to dismiss him from the 
court. The only reply which the king condescended to give them, 
was an angry order for their immediate dissolution. Shortly af- 
terward, the handsome and aspiring Duke was placed in command, 
of another army, intended for the assistance of the Protestants of 
Rochelle ; but he was assassinated on the instant of his embarka- 
tion, by Pel ton, an inferior officer among his own troops. All 
Europe, excepting the king alone, exulted at this sudden and ig- 
nominious termination of his career. 

The part assigned to him in this play, is in complete harmony 
with these details of his history. 

The most obvious objection which could be urged against the 
plot of the following play, is that Prince Charles, after having been 
introduced somewhat prominently in the First Act, afterward al- 
most disappears from the subsequent scenes. The answer to this 
objection is this : that as the Prince is only intended to be a 
secondary character, and is introduced merely so far, as he is neces- 
sary to prepare the way for others, when he is afterward dropped, 
as soon as the more important personages become seriously en- 
gaged in the incidents of the drama, — he is but treated with criti- 
cal consistency and justice. To have given him any further pro- 
minence would have diverted the attention from the real heroes of 
the play, and would have weakened the effect intended to be pro- 
duced by the events of their more important history. 

The transactions connected with the personal history of Prince 
Charles while in Spain, were trivial and unimportant, to the last 
degree; and it would have been impossible to invest anything 



PREFACE. 27 

which he there either said or did, with the least dramatic interest 
or historical consequence. What was wanting in connection with 
himself, was furnished, to some extent, by his subordinate asso- 
ciates,— the heroes of the following pla3^ The adventures of these 
men, in Spain, were indeed, memorable and striking ; and few 
events, in the whole history of courtiers, furnish more romantic 
and interesting incidents, than those of the accomplished, elegant, 
though most dissolute suite of Prince Charles in Spain. 
Neio York, Nov., 1853. S. M. S. 



NOTES TO TEXT. 



[1.] The subsequent experience of Charles I., after he had espoused 
the princess Henrietta of France, proved to be precisely such as that 
referred to in the text. The suite of the French princess wiio accom- 
panied her to England, formed the hot-bed of endless jealousies, 
bickerings, and domestic factions, amid the eternal and treacherous 
janglings of which, the unhappy king enjoyed as little domestic fell 
city, as ever fell to the lot of a less illustrious husband. The despe- 
rate prince was compelled at last to dismiss and expel every person 
connected with his Queen, from his court and capital. Then, but not 
till then, did he enjoy a cessation of their endless disturbances. 

[2.] Philip II. was the son of Charles V., Emperor of Germany, 
King of Spain and the Netherlands, and King of Austria. He was a 
man of remarkable haughtiness of temper ; and the language ascribed 
to him in the text, may be regarded as neither inappropriate or over- 
strained, however absurd it is in reality. In this monarch Spanish 
pride reached an amazing and unparalleled intensity. 

[3.] It is a matter familiar to the historical reader, that the ancient 
worshippers of the Assyrian deity, Molock, erected hollow iron altars 
to his worship ; which were surmounted by huge statues of the god, 
made of the same material, with extended arras, in which naked in- 
fants were deposited. Large fires were then built within the altars, 
and the innocent sufferers roasted to death, in the embrace of the god, 
amid the noisy revelry of the surrounding multitude. Vide CALMET*a 
Encyc. sub voce, Molock. 



THE SPANISH WIFE, 



ACT I. 

Scene I. — Private Cabhiet of James I., %n the Palace at 
Windsor. King James discovered standing at a writing 
table, covered ivith j^o^pers, scrolls, Sj'C. 

K. James, (solus.) Already have the ripening merits of 
my son, 
The youthful heir to England's throne, secured 
The praises of my subjects, and the admiration 
Of all Europe. Their congratulations now flow 
In upon me daily. Bat while my blooming hopes 
All centre in him, their fulfillment hangs, 
But by a single hair, o'er a profound and 
Hazardous abyss. If he should perish, 
Where is the succession ? Where then would be 
The noble house of Stuart, and its hereditary 
Glories ? Where the peace and concord of the realm ? 
Thus the most trivial accident, that 
E'er befel a feeble mortal, might, in a 
Single instant, change the fortunes of a world. 
He must marry ; and that, too, quickly. His 
Youthful blood must flow in other veins. 
And an increasing brood of fair descendants, 
Must crowd around his feet. I may yet see 



32 THE SPANISH WIFE. 

That happy hour, ere these decrepid limbs 
Eepose in kindred clay. The good work is begun. 
My messenger to the King of Saxony, must 
Soon return ; and should that proposition fail, 
I must devise some other, surer aUiance. 

Enter Buckingham and Lord Cecil, l. 

Ah, welcome, my lords; my noble privy 
Councillors are late to-day. 

Buck. We crave your pardon. 

K. James, What news have you 
Received from the King of Saxony ? 

Cicil. None, my liege. 

K. James. Those sleepy G-ermans are so 
Slow in their diplomacy ! My patience 
Is exhausted by them. 

Buck. A short delay will 
Doubtless bring hia answer. 

Enter Page, who hands letter to the King, l. 

K. James, (reads.) 'Tis e'en as you 
Predict. My royal brother, King of Saxony, 
Informs me in this last epistle, that 
His fair daughter, Ann, is now betrothed 
To a Danish prince ; and much regrets my kind 
Proposal is beyond the power of his fulfillment. 
'Tis unfortunate. What shall be done ? 

Cec. My liege, amid the 
Brilliant catalogue of Christian princesses, 
There can yet surely one be found, deserving 
Of this high and great alliance. 

K. James. Name me but one. 

Buck. There is the French princess, 
Henrietta, blooming with unequalled loveliness. 

K. James. 1 will permit no Bourbon 
Princess in my court. Her suite would be the 
Cause of endless jealousies and broils. They 
Would but act as spies upon my government 
And kingdom. 1 should enjoy no peace, or comfort 
More, with those eternal intriguers within 



THE SPANISH WIFE. 33 

The precincts of my palace. 

Cec. I confess, that 
Those are grave objections to a French alliance. 

Buck. We must inquire, then, 
Elsewhere. I will confer at once with all the 
Foreign ministers at our court ; I will 
Inform my liege of the result of my researches. 
Depend upon me ; I will yet succeed, 
And find a princess worthy of your son. 

K. James. Then haste you in the work. 
There are most serious dangers in delay. 
The whole succession of my throne, now 
Centres in that boy, and we must, quickly, ere an 
Accident prevents so great a purpose. 
Provide for the continuance of our royal 
House. So, commence your inquiries. 

[Exit, Buck, and Cecil, l. 

Scene II. — Another Apartment in the Palace of Windsor 
Prince Charles and Buckingham discovered. 

Buck. I own ^tis true, my noble prince. The 
News from Saxony is not propitious. 
But that affects me little. There are other 
Princesses, as charming as the heavy 
Dame of Dresden, and I hope most more so. 

Charles. I wish my father 
Did not hasten on my nuptials thus. 
I do not wish to wed. A thousand beauties 
Daily sigh around me, all whose tender charms 
Delight my soul, and surfeit me with love. 
More than these I do not want. 

Buck. But your noble father is most anxious 
Respecting the succession. You must then 
Marry and that quickly. I have lately seen 
A Spanish gentleman, who speaks in the 
Most glowing terms of the fair Infanta, 
Daughter of the Spanish monarch. What think 
You now of such a match ? 

Charles. The ardent dames of 
Spain, are not without their charms, 
As all the world can testify. 



34 THE SPANISH WIFE. 

What does he say of her ? 

Buck, fehe is, indeed, not the 
Most beauteous of her sex. Yet she is pretty, 
Tender, graceful ; and the vast dominions, 
Which would become her dower, would add 
Stupendous bulk to th' wealth and resources 
Of our English realms. 

Charles. How would she best 
Be won ? The etiquette of the Spanish court 
Is endless and interminable. Years would 
Elapse before a proposition of alliance 
Between our houses, would attain a final issue. 

Buck. There is much truth in that remark. 
We must devise some quicker method, {pauses.) 
I have it ! Let us sail at once for Spain, 
There woo the princess in your proper person. 
Observe her charms yourself If you desire it, 
I w^arrant, she will most easily be won. 
And if need be ; if you are trammelled by the 
Endless meshes of their courtly forms. 
Elope with her from Spain ! Yes, elope on board our ships. 
We will assist you. 'Twill all be afterward 
Arranged. What think you of the adventure ? 

Charles. 'Tis a brilliant thought. 
'Tis worthy of the noble Buckingham ! I am 
Delighted with it. What a romantic 
Novelty would it be ! All Europe would 
Be tilled with wonder and applause. Such 
An event has never happened yet, in all 
The history of European princes. Indeed, 
I like it vastly ! Spain is the land of love. 
I should delight to roam amid the cool 
And leafy shades of Vallambrosa, with an 
Andalusian maid upon my arm ; and 
Gaze On the mosaic splendors of the 
Alhanibra, where Moorish genius still 
Beams forth, immortal. Yes, I approve the 
Proposition. I will go ! 

Buck. But your sire, his high consent 
Is needful. You must, of course, obtain that first. 

Charles. I'll see him instantly. 
'Tis Spain, and its rare beauties, far more 



THE SPANISH WIFE. 35 

Than the Infanta, and her dower, which 
Speed me on so ardently. We will meet 
Again after my private converse with my father. 
Buck, I will expect you then. 

Scene III. — Private Cabinet of King James, as in first 
sce)ie. King James a7td Prince Charles discovered. 

Charles. My honored liege, I crave to know : — 
Do your desire that I, your son and heir, 
Should wed ? 

IC James. That is the greatest hope and 
Aim for which I live. 

Charles. Then I am willing to 
Obey you, as well as to assist your purpose, 

K. James. But I am yet unable 
To discover where to look for an appropriate 
And a worthy alliance. 

Charles. Then let me mention 
To you, one that is most suitable. 

K. Jajncs. Proceed. Whom 
Would you recommend ? 

Charles. The Duke of Buckingham 
And I, have just conferred on this important 
Theme. He has proposed the daughter of 
The King of Spain, the Infanta. 

/i. James. It is a seemly alliance. 
'Tis one whereby great benefit might be 
Obtained for England, and her interests, 
On the continent. Let me see. [pauses.) 
Upon reflection, I approve the proposition. 
I will dispatch at once a messenger to 
Th^ Spanish court, to open conferences 
On the subject. 

Charles. Send a messenger ! Never ! sire. 
I have still something better to propose. 
I will go forth myself to Spain, and woo the 
Princess there in person. 

IL James. Impossible ! What an 
Outrageous purpose! What ! Shall I thus risk the lone 

Successor to my throne, amid the countless 
Perils, both of land and sea ; and that too, in f^ 



36 



THE SPANISH WIFE. 



Foreign clime ? Never ! Perchance, when the 
Perfidious Spaniard had you in his grasp, he might 
Retain you as a hostaf^e, and extort from me most 
liuinous terms of resntution. 

Charles. But, my lord Buckingham 
Both proposes and approves this visit. 

K. James. He does ? That alters, 
Then, the case. What the noble Duke proposes, 
Must be right and safe. He is a far-sighted 
Statesman. Does he indeed regard this 
Proposition as both wise and prudent ? 

Charles. Perfectly. If you 
Confer with him, you will find it so. 

K. James. I do' not doubt your truth. 
I will at once consent. You shall go. 
With the Duke as your companion, and 
Protector, my fears will be allayed. 
But let me caution you, in time, against 
The many perils which will there surround you. 
Know, my son, the secret dagger of the 
Assassin, in that land, is ever on the 
Alert, to deal a deadly blow, when lust, 
Or avarice, or revenge would spur it on. 
Treat the Spanish court with deference. 
And to the princess give due courtesy. 
And do not be misled, e'en by the gallant 
Courtiers, whom I will send with you, — 
By Buckingham, and the impetuous Sydney. 
In all affairs of love, I grieve to say. 
They are unthinking and unscrupulous ; 
And trifle but too lightly with the female 
Heart and its most pure affections. 
Be you honorable, prudent, faithful. 
Profess nothing which you do not feel 
Promise nothing which you will not 
Execute. And should you wish, at length, 
To wed the Spanish princess, my consent 
Shall not be wanting. Meanwhile, I will 
Command all needful preparations to be made 
For this strange expedition, — such as 
Will be worthy of yourself and me, 
Charles. IVIy liege and father, 



THE SPANISH WIFE. 37 

Accept rny hearty thanks. I will most deeply 

Charge my mind and memory with your 

Prudent councils ; and will then obey them. 

Amid the various scenes and incidents 

Of this adventurous journey, I will 

Ne'er forget the thoughtful lessons you this 

Day impart to me. 

Scene IV. — Palace of Duke of Buckingham, London, 

Enter Buckingham, Sir William Sydney, Lord Eoches- 
TER, Graham, and Cecil, l. 

Buck. My noble lords, I have this moment 
Come from the presence of the king, and my 
Dispatches are in my possession. 
All other needful preparations for this 
Eomantic embassy to Spain, are finished. 
Our gallant ships already ride at 
Anchor in the channel. Our youthful and 
Adventurous prince is eager to embrace 
His blooming Spanish bride. He bids us 
Hasten our departure. What say you ? 

Syd. I see no reason for delay. 
All our equipments are complete ; and all 
The splendor, which British pride, and 
Wealth, and skill, could lavish on our embassy, 
Have been bestowed upon us, by our 
Liberal sovereign. I burn to see 
The sunny hills of Spain ; to view the 
Splendors of its haughty court ; and more than 
All, to woo the dark-eyed beauties of 
That loving clime, whose charms have 
Been renowned throughout the world. 
Roch. My chief objection to this 
Sudden haste, will be, that so many soft 
Attachments bind me here already, that, to 
Dissolve them rudely all at once, will be 
A desperate attempt ! A great many 
Loving and devoted hearts, will surely break, 
If you insist upon my leaving England, 
In such eager haste ! 



38 THE SPANISH WIFE. 

Grah. I give my voice 
In favor of our quick departure. 
I am in haste to grasp those broad and ghttering 
Ducats, which now shine so brightly, in the 
Iron coffers of the Spanish courtiers. 
The members of this royal embassy will be 
O'erwhelmed with floods of golden treasure, 
If they accompHsh this desired match, 
Between our gallant prince and the fair Joanna, 
Heiress of the Spanish realms. 

Buck. It is enough. 
We will delay no longer. At to-morrow's 
Noon, let each one be in readiness, to 
Meet the prince, and to embark upon the 
Journey. Three changing moons shall not 
Kevolve around this teeming earth, ere we 
Set foot on Spanish soil, and hail its mighty 
Court and King. Success to English wooing 
For Spanish brides ! This expedition shall 
Be memorable, I w^arrant me, to many 
A sighing Andalusian maid, who 
Will remember long the journey of the English 
Courtiers to her shores, to woo and win a 
Beauteous partner for their noble prince. 
To-morrow then, at noon, we bid adieu 
To England, and set sail for Spain. 

Cec. At noon. 
To-morrow, we shall meet your lordship. 

[Exeunt, l. 

Buck, (solus.) And thus my scheme moves on most 
famously ! 
This expedition will attract more glory to my name, 
Than all the by-gone triumphs of my prowess. 
Or my craft. Indeed, my fame would soon have 
Sunk in deep oblivion ; for those who are 
But statesmen of the common stamp, are soon 
Forgotten by ungrateful men ! But now my 
Fertile brain has hit upon a scheme, rash. 
Dangerous, foohsh though it be ; yet one. 
Which will be spoken of with wonder, to the 
End of time, and rescue the proud name of 
Buckingham, from dark forgetfulness. And even 



THE SPANISH WIFE 39 

Though the expedition fail ! What of that ? 

It matters nothing. I will have had the 

Glory of the plan. What though it fail, and a 

Destructive war in turn should devastate 

The land. That matters nothing ; for I have 

Had the glory of the plan ! And that great 

End attained, all other purposes are but 

Of trivial consequence. Yet I predict. 

The expedition will not fail ; for Buckingham 

But seldom fails. And then our private pleasures 

In the Spanish capital, — these surely will be 

New and piquant. 'Twill be a famous expedition ! 

END OF ACT I. 



ACT II. 

Scene I. — Palace of the Escurial in Spain. — Philip II. 
a7id his courtiers discovered. 

Enter Marquis of Toledo and Don Alfonso, l. 

Tole. Sire, we come to apprise your majesty, 
Of the arrival of the embassy of your 
Illustrious brother, King of England ; concerning which, 
Your trusty servants at that Court, 
Have sent your majesty, already,, due and 
Timely notice. They have been escorted 
To my palace, and are now my guests. 
They crave a public audience of our 
King, that they may then present their 
Koyal master's greeting, and with all due forms 
Of courtly etiquette, may woo and win 
The fair Infanta for their prince. 

K. Phil. We hear of the arrival 



40 THE SPANISH WIFE. 

Of this train of noble Britons, and their 

Blooming prince, with hearty welcome. 

It is our pleasure, that they be received 

With fullest honor, and that, as soon 

As may be, you conduct them to our presence. 

Exit J Toledo, r. 

Alf. Already have I seen your visitors, — 
These noble and illustrious strangers. They are 
Worthy of your sovereign courtesy 

K, Phil. Where saw you them ? 

Alf. In the Marquis of 
Toledo's palace. 

K- Fhil. Well, what think you 
Of their rank and greatness ? I presume 
They must be worthy, in magnificence and 
Splendor, of the important mission 
Which conducts them hither ? 

Alf. All Madrid already echoes 
With loud applauses of their courtly grace, 
Their lofty chivalry, their lavish waste of gold ; 
And what is not less grateful, to the peerless 
Beauties of your court, their adoration 
Of our noble Spanish dames. Their youthful 
Prince appears, himself, a model of most manly 
Beauty ; while his attendants all reflect 
High honor on themselves and him. 

K. Phil. I must admit, that from your 
Own description, from the renowned greatness 
Of their nation, and from the strange and 
Striking novelty of this rare expedition, 
I am in haste to see these visitors. So 
When their public presentation to us 
Is announced, let all our court attend. 
In full array, that in this great, imposing 
Presence, the ancient chivalry of Spain 
May not appear, unworthy of itself. 

Exeunt^ Courtiers, r. and l. 
(Sohis.) The times have been, (now past indeed,) 
Where these aspiring dwellers on that distant, 
Petty, foggy island of the Northern seas, 
Were httle better than barbarians ; 
Unknown in th' glorious annals both of arts and 



THE SPANISH WIFE. 41 

Arms. The onward march of empires is 

Astounding ! Once the ancient crown of Spain shone 

Brightest in the glorious firmament of kings. 

Then, for an English prince to have presumed, 

Upon an alliance with our house would 

Have been laughable impertinence. Yet, 

Since a fitful fate has now exalted England, 

And made her equal to our ancient glory, 

We must pretend, cajole, deceive ; 

Involve them in the endless mazes of our 

Courtly etiquette, and then, at length, dismiss 

Them, doubtful if they shall prevail or 

Not. Yes ! that shall be my policy. 

It is the wisest, safest, best ! 2.) 

Scene II. — Palace of Don Alfonzo at Madrid. 
Enter Laura, Constanza, and Lorenzo, l. 

Laura. How I do long to hear some news to-day ! 
I do declare that all the gossip 
Of the court, has grown to me intolerably 
Stale and flat. For once, I should delight to hear 
Something wonderful and startling. 

Lor. Then, for once, you shall admit 
That you are gratified. I now have something 
Truly wonderful to tell you. 

Con. Indeed, what can it be ? 
Something wonderful to us here in Madrid, 
Must indeed possess a nature almost 
Miraculous, 

Lor. Well, then, a most mysterious 
Embassy, consisting of twelve noblemen, has 
Arrived, this very day, at our court. 

Lau, Whence do they come ? 

Lor. They come from England. 

Con. For what purpose ? 

Lor. For a very curious purpose, and withal, 
For a very interesting one. 

Lau. What can it be, Lorenzo ? 

Lor. What is most interesting 
Of all things to a woman ? 



42 THE SPANISH WIFE. 

Laii,, Nothing in all the world 
Does interest me at this moment. Not even 
You, Lorenzo, fascinating as you are ! 
But there are some who say, that love is 
Most agreeable of all things. If 'tis so, 
I wish that I might feel it once, if for no other 
Eeason than for the novelty of the thing. 

Lor. Strange to say, the English prince desires 
To have a wife ! 

Con. That is certainly very 
Strange. Who ever heard before, that a 
Prince desired a wife ! This is indeed a novelty ! 

Lor. These twelve noblemen have come, 
Commissioned by the king of England, 
To negotiate a marriage with the Infanta. 

Loit. I hope they may not meet 
Success. Those Englishmen, from all that I have 
Ever heard, are such stern, such cold, such 
Selfish creatures ! 

Con. There is a much greater 
Eault than that among them. They are 
The most obstinate heretics in the world ! 

Lou. Santa Maria! protect us. 

Lor. But these cavaliers 
Are said to be the most 
Accomphshed, fascinating men. 
You must both beware of them. 

Lau. You need not caution me. 
If all the female hearts in Spain, were as 
Invulnerable to their darts as I, 
These gentlemen would have their labor for 
Their pains, and would return again to their 
Distant, foggy island, precisely as 
They came, without one single heart to triumph o er 

Lor. My fairest Laura, 
Do not be too confidant, I do conjure you. 
Cupid is a most capricious, wilful creature. 
He wounds, you know not how, or when, or where ; 
And he must be a skilful surgeon who can 
Extract his festering dart, when once 'tis fairly lodged, 
Do not exult untill these gallants are all 
Safely gone again. Let me repeat 



THE SPANISH WIFE 48 

My caution to you both. Beware ! 

Con. Absurd, I fear no danger ! 

Lau. Nor I. I give them leave to 
Wound me if they can ! They will deserve 
The highest praises they receive, if they 
Succeed in doing it ! I will even lure ihem 
On, to try their utmost skill. And when their 
Arts are all exhausted, and have failed, 
I'll jest upon my British lords, and all 
Their silly thoughts of Spanish love and women ! 

Scene III. — Audience Chamber of Philip II., in the Escu- 
rial. The King and full array of Courtiers discovered. 
King on the Throne. 

JEnter Marquis Toledo, Buckingham, Sidney, Rochester, 
Graham, Cecil, and Don Alfonzo, l. 

Tol. If it please your majesty, I here 
Present to you, his Grace, the Duke of Buckingham, 
And these most noble lords, ambassadors 
From the king of England. 

K Phil, (to Buck^j My lord Duke, 
Accept our cordial greeting. You are welcome 
To our Spanish realm and capital. 

Buck. I thank your majesty ! 
"We come as the ambassadors of our English 
Monarch ; to present to you, in all good faith, 
His own fraternal greeting, and then, to open 
Conference with your court on a more 
Tender theme. 

K. Phil. I pray you, what is it ? 

Buck. It is to crave a lasting alliance 
Between the crowns of England and of Spain, 
By the marriage of our monarch's son, 
Now in your realm, with your fair daughter, 
The Infanta. 

K. Phil. This is, indeed, my lord, 
A grave proposal, and one that touches 
Nearly, our own ^ sart and sceptre. 

Buck. And so in truth it does. 
But yet, 'tis one which our great nation 



44 THE SPANISH WIFE. 

Doth approve, and one to which we trust your 
Majesty will yet affix your solemn sanction. 
'Tis a most noble, princely purpose, 
Thus to bind vast empires in close unity 
And concord, by the strong and tender ties 
Of love. Ten thousand evils, thus, are 
Warded off, of war, of bloodshed, and of general 
111, which might have devastated kingdoms, 
And laid low, in hopeless ruin, their 
Growing greatness. Our prince is 37^oung and 
Chivalrous. The Infanta is most beautiful 
And tender. We pray kind heaven, that this 
Proposed alliance may be accomplished, 
And bind in harmony and peace two distant 
Healms, two great and mighty nations. 

K. Phil. It may be so. 
A proposition of such grave import. 
Should not be entertained by us in haste. 
We and our supreme council will gravely 
Consider of it. Meanwhile, you are our 
Honored guests. The brilliant spectacles, 
The gay delights, the sights and wonders of all Spain 
Are open to your free fruition. 
Let it not be a sad time with you here 
In Spain ; but let your exile be a joyous one. 
All the honors of our court, and the pleasures 
Of our capital, are at your welcome feet. 

Buck. We pray your majesty 
To accept our thanks. And now we say 
Farewell, until such time, as we may learn 
Your final purpose and decree, concerning the 
Infanta. And here are the dispatches. 
Touching the great purpose of our mission, 
With which our sovereign master hath entrusted 
Us, to be delivered to your royal hands. 

[Delivers dispatches to the king. 

Scene IV. — Private Apartment of the Duke of Buckino* 

HAM. 

Enter Buckingham and Sir William Sidney. 
Buck. My lord Sidney, this is most certainly 



THE SPANISH WIFE. 45 

A gay and cheerful land, for all the men are 

Full of chivalry, and all the women 

Are desperate in their loves. Already 

Have I met an amorous adventure, 

Pull of terrible excitement. These Spanish 

Women, — if they once adopt you as their 

Bosom's lord, will love you with an ardor 

Of devotion, which is truly fearful to the 

Frigid dwellers of a colder chme. 

I doubt not, should their sweets of love 

Be turned to jealous hate, 'twould mingle 

With it all the bitterness of hell. Let me 

Warn you, ray impetuous friend. 

Stilettos are in fashion here, in fairest hands, 

As much as in the ruder grasp of ruffians. 

Sid. I grant you that, most willingly, my lord, 
And yet these Spanish beauties are so lovely, 
So bewitching, that their smiles are cheaply 
Bought, e'en at the risk of life or limb. 

Buc7<:. Oh, what a glorious spectacle 
Was that we saw last eve ? These Spanish 
Bull-fights are most worthy of their high renown. 
Have you seen them ? 

Sid. Yes, I have seen them. 

Buck. Who can behold the splendid 
Bright array of beauty, heightened the 
Intense excitement of the scene ; the neighing 
Horses, the dauntless toros^ the heroic 
Metodores^ the echoing bravos^ the 
Acclamations far and wide resounding. 
The well-fought battles, and the bloody 
Victories, — without delight ? But Sidney, {approaching 

him. 
Why so serious ? What has now occurred to 
Cast so sad a shade upon your cheerful 
Countenance ? Something has given you 
The aspect of a gloomy, whining priest. 

Sid. Had you beheld what I 
Have seen, you had been gloomy too. Already 
Has my sturdy heart been vanquished, and led 
Captive, by Spain's fairest, and most beauteous 
Daughter. And unrequited love, you know, 



46 THE SPANISH WIFE. 

Perhaps from past experience, is saddening. 

Buck. Can it be possible ? 
Come, tell me all about it. 

Sid. It occurred last evening. 
At the amphitheatre. All Madrid was present 
In its pomp, its pride, its beauty. Just after 
The first victim had stained the earth with 
His reeking blood, and was dragged forth, 
Dead, from the arena; I turned to view 
The mighty circle of that teeming. 
Multitudinous sea of life ; when near 
Me, I caught the most enchanting vision 
Hum^n eyes have e'er beheld ; a creature, 
Whose matchless loveliness at once enchained 
My soul. I looked, and looked again. 
Each glance of love absorbed new draughts of 
Amorous fire, until I burned with an 
Admiring rapture, to which I had ever 
Been a stranger. 

Buck. Wonderful ! 
Well, what then ? 

Sid. The lady, I assure you, is indeed, 
Immaculate perfection ! I approached her. 
Her mother alone attended her. With an 
Uncovered head, and with such courteous 
Deference, as peerless beauty e'er 
Inspires true chivalry, I spoke to her ; 
(The freedom of this loving land permitting 
It, to those of equal rank ;) begged pardon 
For my freedom, and ventured some indifferent 
Questionings. I have her gracious leave 
To visit her. My heart is full of rapture 
At the thought that I shall soon again 
Behold her peerless charms, and pour into 
Her listening ear a burning tale of love. 

Buck. Pray, tell me, who can this rare 
Model of perfection be ? 

Sid. She is the Countess Laura, 
Daughter of a noble Spanish Grandee, 
Duke Alfonzo, one of the magnates of Madrid. 

Buck. Well, enough of this rhapsodic love 
At present, I wish you full success in 



THE SPANISH WIFE. 47 

This your first adventure. Ours is an 
Embassy of love, you know. Venus and Cupid 
Are our tutelary gods, beneath whose 
Auspices this expedition has been 
Begun. We should account our tender triumph 
Neither few nor insignificant. 
So fare you well, and when we next shall meet 
Let me then hear the happy progress, 
And the final triumph of your suit, 
Methinks the interest of your own adventure. 
Henceforth take precedence of th' royal match 
Between the prince and the Infanta. 

Scene V. — Garden of Don Alfonso's Palace. Sir Wil- 
liam Sidney, and Donna Laura discovered in the midst 
of shrubbery. A bower in the rear. 

Lau. If what you say be true, — my lord, 
Nor do I doubt it ; — your's must be a noble 
Land, — the home of mighty heroes, 
Statesmen, artists ; and were I not a Spaniard, 
I might choose to be a Briton. 

Sid. It is indeed, my fair one ! 
I am proud that I was born its citizen. 
But Spain can also boast of many 
Immortal names, in arts and arms, in beauty 
And in song. 

Lau. Your nation has at least one 
Glaring fault ; — a serious one to us, the tender 
Sex ! You are too cold and formal ; you know 
Not how to love ; and without love, life here, with us 
In Spain, becomes indeed a cheerless waste, 
A heavy burden ! 

Sid. How strangely you 
Mistake us ! We Britons may indeed not be 
As wild, impassioned, fervent as the 
Lovely denizens of this fair sunny clime ; 
But, believe me, we can love as deeply, 
As truly, and as well as they. That love 
Is not the strongest, which sends forth 
The loudest clamor. We have an ancient 
Adage in our land, which says that 



48 THE SPANISH WIFE. 

Deepest waters run the stillest. 
And so it is with love ; although indeed, 
Whene'er its onward course is stopped by 
Stern and rugged obstacles, its stream will 
Boil, and fret, and burst in fury o'er them. 

[ Laura surveys him admiringly. 

Lau. Pray, Sir William, have you 
Ever loved ? 'Tis a strange question, truly, 
But 'tis one I crave to know. It is my 
Present humor. 

Sid. Let me answer it. 
Pair questioner, by asking, in reply, 
Have you e'er felt the strange emotion ? 

Lau. My heart is free ; free as the air of heaven ! 
I have beheld the noblest gallants of the 
Land. I have admired their grace ; and 
Praised their manly beauty. I have oft 
Been wooed. But I have never yet been won. 
My heart has not been touched by all their 
Arts of tender witchery, and amorous 
Craftiness. And now, that you are freely 
Answered, answer me as freely ! 

Sid. Were I to answer falsely, 
I should injustice do to all your charms. 
Were I to answer truly, it would cover 
O'er my brow, with crimson blushes. 
What is true love ? I long to know 
Your thought upon it. 

Lau. If I have never felt it, 
How can I then describe it ? And yet, from 
Books, and legends, and from the daily incidents 
Of men, I think I may have learned to 
Picture forth its nature. 
I suppose it is a curious passion ; 
Half joy, half grief, half sweet, half bitter. 
Its heavenly sweetness, not an angel's tongue 
Can tell. Its demon bitterness, no winged 
Thought can fathom. 'Tis sometimes based 
On graceful charms of outward form. 
But that love is the noblest, which springs up 
In the admiring soul of woman, when 
She views, and comprehends the high supremacy 



THE SPANISH WIFE. 49 

Of mind in him she loves; the grandeur 

Of that intellectual power, which ranges forth 

A facile conqueror o'er all the high 

And fair domains of knowledge, and which proves 

The man she loves, coequal with a god. 

The bard's undying verse, the statesman's craft, 

The soldier's heroism, the orator's fervent 

Tongue, — these feed the flame of woman's highest 

Love, with noblest and immortal fuel. 

This love will fill the soul with heavenly 

Forms of light ; and make it pregnant with 

Rich fancy's varied loveliness. It comes, indeed, 

Unbidden ; but it ne'er departs again. 

If it be requited, it will cast auroral 

Radiance round the soul ; and turn this earth, 

With all its woes, into a paradise 

Of bliss. Time then becomes too short, for its 

Fruition ; and life itself, too transient, to exhaust 

Its deep, unfathomable joys. All human 

Good and ill become indifferent in their 

Nature ; since all are thus transmuted to 

Delight. But if this love be scorned, and 

Trod upon, it then becomes an agony. 

So terrible and distracting, that all 

The tortures of the lost are trifles to it. 

Is it not so ? 

Sid. Thy thoughts and words 
Are beautiful, as is the angelic form 
From which they emanate, {kneels.) 
My fairest Laura, let this heavenly 
Bliss of which thou speakest, be mine. 
A stranger from a distant clime, I 
Am thy suppliant lover. 1 would live 
And die for thee ! One word of hope from 
Those sweet hps, as fragrant as the rosy 
Breath of morn, will give me life and joy. 
One frown on that fair brow, as smooth and pure 
As Dian's heaving breast, will overshadow 

Me with gloom. Oh ! thou most eloquent 

Expounder of man's inmost nature, 
Words cannot tell how deep is that 
Devotion, with which thy charms have filled 



50 THE SrANISII WIFE. 

My soul. Accept a heart that would 
Be thy eternal slave ! 

Lau. Ivise, my lord, 
I'm not indifferent to your merit. 
My heart is not incapable of love. 
But this proposal, though 'tis honorable. 
Is too hasty ; and maiden modesty forbids 
That I should thus so soon be wooed, 
Or so easily be won. Yonder I see 
My honored father's form, amid the hanging foliage. 

[Alfonso ajjpcars in the rear. 
Let us now bid adieu to these sweet themes 
Until we meet again. Then, my lord, I 
Will permit my heart to dictate the true 
Language of my lips. Let me go to meet him ! 

[^Retires toward Alfonso. 

END OF ACT II. 



ACT IIL 

3 joNE I. — Apartment of the Duke op Buckingham. 
Enter Buckingham, Sidney, and Sir Richard G-raham. 

BkcJx. Well, Sidney, how comes on your tender suit 
with that personified perfection of yours. The v. >ana^ — 
what is her name ? 

Sid. I suppose, my lord, j^ou mean the Countess Laura ? 

Buck. I suppose I do ; but I confess, that in this in- 
stance, you know my " supposition" better than I do my- 
self. Is she very difficult to win ? If she be, one thing is 
certain, and that is, that she is a rare anomaly in the his- 
tory of Spanish women, — the only instance throughout all 



Spain, of a Troman ^V !f» ihnrj :f ler t^T^ors-and wiio m^ 
nothe had bj any ^cr *:-:(.♦ inj: ittilcw^ ika !nya«£ jTir die 
ample reftpectfulafttt'-ncr. I.ll:^r^:. ro iir lave diesse «lark- 
^ed- impaft^iotied dcnnji^» in:'r^i^: vitt :oii2:!ii^ xnngAA- 
cen. ' ! me. uiat ^ney la-- er-^^ T-^r^red tio reSewft 

me -i^ie 0*0 able : in.' J. i:i~i :ifer^i roeir a&cdott 

grazjs, 'jz :2iis, the abiiii<Lir-ce las ":e-:t-rne 50 zreat diat 
my pox% ers or accommcdarr q ia~-r n«ie^i been, ovsrca^- 
ed, aac I have been <2cnipeile: :':r r-rtv-r-L. iajs zo sospefld 
hofinlitiea- :?ir Ricoard. -v.i- -:l^: :eea. "car exp«iaice 
in the mattt?r of :?panish _ 

Qrak, Well- while I ii^-rt ci ^ach. great tri- 

mnpha in. the world of beauij ji jaluir:'!. ii» yrjn aetan to 
do^ I have not been, here r^vc waoLe weeks withool meet- 
ing aome adventnre. Yoo. have. h'''ve"^^r. zreatiy the ad- 
TantaiZe of me. caj I<Tri ia. vo'ii* ^'ly.encr jr.arm. of person 
and «HI1 in female fa^einatioiL In 'iiese :^ng5. I comiesB^ 
I am no equal to the LKiie of B^ictrignarr. '. 

Budc [to SidTLgy. ] Why. Sidney. I aee you still retain 
yoar 3oI«iin monkish moe. Are yon. stilL endiiring^ the 
pan^ of that barbed arrow, which C'lpid .areiy lodged in 
jonr breast '? It mnst have festered ^^irely dnrin^ aill tiiia 
time. DocbtlesB. there is bat one iiiir hand trironsh- 
oot all Spain, which can act the succesefii snrgeon, and 
extract that penetrating ahaft. How is this t 

Sid. I>ott't jest on snch a 3eri<>ns subject. 

Ruck, A serious subject ? Eidiculous ! r>o you pre- 
tend to speak of the love of woman as a serious thing ? 

SieL The love of some women I regard as a s«ioa8 
J, my Ior»l 

3mck. Do you indeeii ! TeU me the tiijKrence between 
tiiem. To me. the love of oue woman is exactly the same 
as that of another. They are aK the trivial plaything of 
SB faoor. To me they aS grow stale aGke. 

SitL 'PabsLgs they do : such ^ those whose love so 
greal a tr^er as you, may be able to win. 

BmdL Wfaai mean yon ? You are quite ambiguous. 

SmL Wbat I meaK isy Hiat if you once secure tiie ajfec* 
*3oae of a aoiile, aecoa^ifiriied. and cooliding womac^e de- 
flcrves jomr taaetamej'y and your unchanging tenderness. 
Tow p r o femu d imtrigmstes whose love is but the gratin- 
oc a trinnirnt wium ; wfao expect te :a6C yoa o^ 



/>2 THE SPANISH WIPE. 

themselves, as soon as their greedy appetite is sated, and 
a newer or more fascinating lover attracts them, — such 
women you may serve accordingly. But all women are 
not of this character ; and last of all, the best and most 
excellent of women to whom you now refer. 

Buck. I suppose, of course, that you now allude to this 
wonderful charmer of yours, the Donna Laura ? 

Sid. Most certainly I do. 

Buck. Let me assure you, that you soon will get over 
all that nonsense. If your inamorata is fairer, and more 
tender than all other women, she may inspire you at first 
with a deeper and intenser passion ; but this new flame 
will soon grow cold, hke hundreds before" it; and ere we 
take our final leave of Spain, and Spanish women, you will 
almost have forgotten that the divine Laura had ever ex- 
isted. Take my word for it; I am no novice in these 
mysterious and delicate matters. 

Sid. My lord, I am something of a gallant, I acknow- 
ledge. But I have never learned to trifle with woman's 
afi'ections, to the same cold, heartless, and utterly unfeel- 
ing extent which you do. 

Buck. Absurd ! let me tell you, and if you do not know 
it, 'tis high time that you should learn it, — that all women, 
without exception, are extremely selfish. Even their love 
is nothing but absolute selfishness. What does a woman 
love you for, in case she love at all ; w^hich has, indeed, 
become a rare event ; unless it be because she finds, or 
imagines that she finds, in your superior charms of mind 
or person, the more potent and efi'ective instruments 
wherewith to gratify her own passion ? Why, for instance, 
does a woman admire the graceful form, the handsome 
features, the fair proportions, and the vigorous limbs of 
such a graceful gallant as I am, {surveying himself^ un- 
less it be because she knows that such superior advantages 
as I possess, render me the more exquisite and fascinating 
in all the sports of love ? 

Sid. I own, there is some truth in that. 

Buck. If women, therefore, in their supreme selfishness, 
are willing to make use of you, to gratify their own pur- 
poses, you should also do the same in regard to them ; 
that is, merely use them as the instruments of your own 
convenience, and when the occasion ends, which made 



THE SPANISH WIFE. ^ 

them useful or agreeable to you, cast them off, as you 
would an old, ill-fashioned, worn-out garment ! 

Sid. Doubtless there is much truth in what you say. — 
You are a profound philosopher, my lord, in matters of 
this kind. Your argument half convinces me. The idea 
of disinterested love in woman, must be an outright ab- 
surdity. I will act upon your counsel ; and when we sail 
from Spain, there will be no freer heart or more desperate 
gallant in all our company than myself. 

Buck. Another thing, do you remember, and that is, 
when they talk to you pathetically of dying at your depar- 
ture, of their breaking hearts ; of the dreary desolation of 
your absence, and so on, and so on ; — that all these poeti- 
cal, romantic declamations, are common stock in trade 
with them, and though they sound very meltingly indeed, 
the fair lips which utter them, mean, in reahty, just no- 
thing at all ; and laugh at your parting tenderness, just as 
soon as your back i's turned, and with watery eyes, you 
have said your last adieu. But I must hasten hence to the 
amphitheatre. My favorite metadorey to-day, will fight the 
most furious of the Valencian bulls ; and I have promised 
to throw him a purse of gold if he is victorious in the con- 
flict. Adieu ! [Exeunt, r. and l. 

Scene II. — Palace of Don Alfonso, at Madrid. 

E?iter Sidney, preceded hy a Servant, who offers him a 
seat., amd then retires. Time., evening. 

Sid. (c.) [sohis.^ This is the fatal and decisive hour 
Unless I am deceived, which shall decide the 
Destiny of this fair child of Spain. I am 
Resolved to ply my arguments with more than 
Usual skill. I'll utter all the sweetest 
Eloquence of words, of looks, of sighs ; and 
E'en if need be, I will fall into the melting 
Mood, but will win her to my purpose. 
I have so planed it, that e'er I leave her 
Here, my trusty servant will request 
Admittance to Alfonso's palace, with 
Letters informing me, that my sudden 
Absence and hasty trip to England, will 



54 THE SPANISH wife. 

Not be required. But I will then, already, 
Have won the blooming prize, and I will stay- 
To revel leisurely in all her matchless 

Charms. Ah ! here she comes ! Now let 

My crafty powers be all awake ! 

Entei- Laura, l. 

Sid. Fair Laura, how have I 
Longed to see this happy hour ! How has that 
Envious sluggard Time dragged slowly on, 
To vex me with his crippled, halting gait ! 

Lau. You are welcome to-day. Sir William. 
Love, that love of which we spoke, when last we 
Met, is a most restless spirit, and eager to attain 
The end of its adventurous journey. 

Sid. And have you thought upon 
My humble suit, since then, fair Laura ? 

Lau. I have, my Lord. 

Sid. Oh, then, promise the happy word, 
That thou art mine, and I will cherish thy 
Sweet love, while life endures. 

Lau. [pausing and looking seriously at him^ 

Are you sure, my lord, that no alloy of self 
Mingles with that pure love ? Oh, should I take 
Thee at thy word, and give thee this fond, trusting 
Heart, in lieu of thine ; and should thine own 
Be false, — a hollow counterfeit of that. 
Which I thee truly give ; oh, how would I 
Execrate the hour, when first I saw thee, 
Or listened to the melting melody of 
That alluring tongue. 

Sid. Believe me, Laura, that 
I am true. I swear by yonder moon, which 
Sheds her mellow beauty o'er the sleeping world, 
That I will aye be constant. I swear by 
All those twinkling stars, vvhich ghtter brightly 
In yon azure vault, far, far beyond the 
Reach of all earth's woes and tears, that I will 
Love thee truly. 

Lau. I take thy solemn oath, {impressively.) 

Sid. !^nd thou '''^H then be mine? 



THE SPANISH V/IFL'. 55 

Lau. Yes. Thine, for ever tbine ! [ejnbracing.) 

Sid. Oh, rich delight ! Oh, rapture ! 
More than faltering words can speak. From this 
Propitious day I live anew ; anew, my love, to thee. 
And I shall ever bless the hour when first I thought 
To visit this far land. How strangely is 
The chequered tissue of our destiny. 
Woven by th' mysterious hand of Providence 
And Fate ! Now may I taste those joys, of which 
Thou speak'st, when thou didst tell of love, — 
Its wondrous power and sv/eetness. Thou dost posses*. 
In me, a true heart, Laura i 

Lau, Were it not so, then 
Should I be, indeed, a wretched bankrupt. 

Sid. Dream not, for a moment, dearest, 
Of future sorrow or distress. 
True love, thou said'st, made all things sweet. 
To us, the future now will be one endless 
Song. My eager fancy travels o'er life's 
Coming journey, on the rainbow wings of 
Hope, and sees naught there, through its wide circuit, 
Save love and bliss. We have a poet in our land, 
Who sings so sweetly of true love, that I 
Will speak his flowing numbers. Will you listen ? 

Lau. I would not lose a syllable 
For half the world! 

S'id. These then are his sw^eet words : (recites or sings.) 

When time who steals our years away, 

Shall steal our pleasures too, 
The memory of the past will stay, 

And half our joys renew. 

Then, Laura, when thy beauty's flower. 

Shall feel the wintry air ; * 
Rememhrance shall recall the hom, 

When thou alone wert there. 

Then talk no more of future gloom, 

Our joys shall always last ; 
For hope shall brighten days to come, 

And memory gild the past. 

Lau. They are sweet words indeed. 



56 TnE SPANISH WIFE. 

Sid. When shall I say my joy is fall ? 
When shall I clasp thee to my heart, and call 
Thee mine, by holy, sacred ties ? 

Lau. Although I dearly prize thy love, 
Why this great eagerness to hasten on our union ? 

Sid. I have a secret now to tell thee ! 

Lau. How ? a secret ? What can it be ? 

Sid. I have delayed the mournful word 
Till we had plighted each our sacred faith. 
Now, that is done, I can the better utter it. 

Lau. Pray delay it not ; what is it ? 

Sid. The Duke of Buckingham, in whose control 
Is placed this treaty for the marriage of the Infanta, 
Has just informed me that it is most needful 
That I should start, at once, for England, 
As special messenger to our king. 

Lau. It cannot be ! 

Sid. It is, alas ! too true. 
And I cannot leave thy sight, nor bear the thought 
That thou art not yet wholly mine ; that thou 
Mayest, by some horrid chance, be yet another's. 
For thou art wooed by all the noblest chivalry 
Of Spain. Thy beauty is too rich a boon, 
Not to attract their amorous craving. 
In my sad, unwilling absence, thy tender heart, 
Open to the potent witcheries of love, 
May yield itself at length a captive ere 
I return ; and place a death-seal on my bliss ! 

Lau. {solemnly.) Canst thou 
Distrust my faith, my plighted love ? Ah ! little 
Dost thou know the heart which thou hast won. 

Sid. Can I distrust thee^ dearest ? Never ! 
No unworthy fear of thy devotion 
Crossed my mind. But here, in Spain, you have 
Strange laws. Your gloomy convert walls 
Enclose too many a beauteous living gem. 
Of radiance almost divine, placed there, 
In durance stern, by their offended sires. Thou art 
A Catholic. Thy father, family, and church. 
May all oppose our union ; and thus when I return 
From my far distant, native isle, I then may find 
Thee a buried tenant of some convert cell, 



THE RPANIbi-r WIFE. 57 

Lost to me for ever. Not all the prayers and tears 
In Spain could free thee then. But if thy church 
Hath made thee mine, I will then feel secure in 
The possession of thy inestimable love. 

Lau. I do not fear such peril to our joy. 
What would avail their prohibition of our love ? 

Nothing with me. True love regards no church, 

Nor kindred, nor relationship, in all the world, 

Save that of one alone — the beloved ! There is my 

Temple, that my priest, and he my deity ! 
Sid. But they have power greater 

Far than thine. If thou refusest, I will forfeit 

Home, and friends, and all, for thee ! I will forsake 

The embassy. I will endure the miseries 

Of the homeless exile, rather than desert thee ! 

I will not leave thee till thou art mine ; till 

Thou art mine by sanction of thy holy church. 
Lau. I love thee ; and I yield to thy desire. 

I h<ive no power or arguments, whereby I 

M;(y resist thy wishes, or say thee, nay. 
Sid. Thou wilt, at once, be mine ? 

But our marriage must be secret. 

Lau. Secret ? Impossible ! Why so ? 

So strange a freak of love hath never stained 

Our house, in many generations. 

Sid. It is strange, my love, I grant ; but 

Canst thou doubt I have a reason for it ? 
Lau. Pray, what can it be ? 

Do not rack my breast with sudden doubts 

And new-born fears. 

Sid. I would not, for the world. 

This, then, is the occasion of my strange behest. 

Were I, a member of this English embassy, 

To violate all forms of courtly etiquette. 

By such a sudden, hasty marriage, while the 

Nuptials of the Infanta were under grave 

Consideration, this court — the most precise 

Of courts — would be insulted. Our negotiations 

Would be instantly suspended ; the object of our 

Mission fail ; and our offended sovereign would 

Then wreak his vengeance on my head. 

But let our imion be but secret now, 



58 THE SPANISH WIFE. 

And a few weeks elapsed and I will own 

Tiiee to be mine to all the world ; and I will 

Bear thee then in joy and triumph, to my native land, 

And thou shalt reign the pride and splendor 

Of my English house. 

Laii. I would not hurt thy interest 
With thy king. I, thy best friend, could never 
Act so base a part. If this be needful. 
As thou sayest it is, oh, then, my willing heart 
Withholds thee nothing. Let this then be 
Ever as thou wishest it ; tho' 'tis a strange behest. 

Enter Servant with letter for Sidney. Sidney whispers 
in his ear^ and he retires. 

Sid. (to Serva7it.) Be in haste ! 
Ah ! what can this be ? {opens letter.) 
'Tis a message from the Duke of Buckingham, (reads.) 

" Sir Philip : At the last j^rivate audience which we had 
ivith the King of Spain, it ivas determined to postpone the 
immediate mission to England, to^which you had been ap- 
pointed, wntil some future day, when the judgment of the 
Royal Council as to the terms of the marriage of the In- 
fanta, will be more maturely considered. Buckingham.'^'* 
(He gives the letter to Laura.) 

LoM. 'Tis welcome news indeed ! 
I will preserve this precious letter nearest 
To my heart. Thou wilt not leave me then ? 
Oh, can it be, Sir William, we now shall 
Never part ? No unexpected absence, 
No sudden mission, shall take thee from 
This doating heart away — not even for a day ! 

Sid. So it is, indeed, my fairest Laura. 
And now that thou hast granted me my heart's 
Request ; hast promised to be mine ; and mine 
For ever ; I have already sent my trusty 
Servant, who has brought this letter, for a holy 
Priest ; who, when he has arrived, will join our 
Wilhng hearts in one eternal bond. 
Hither he comes. Then let us kneel, my love, 
And thus receive his solemn blessing on our 
Union. Oh, hour of heavenly joy and rapture ! 



THE SPANISH WIFE. 59 

\_Priest appears in the rear^ c.— They approach him 
and kneel. He blesses them^ as the curtain decends 

to music.'] 

Scene III. — Palace of Don Alfonso, at Madrid. Don 
Alfonso, Don Lorenzo, and Donna Teresa, discovered. 

Lor. I have ventured here, to-day, my lord, 
To make the offer of my heart and hand 
To your fair daughter, Laura. 
An ardent passion burns within my breast. 
Long have I watched her blooming graces, 
And I confess myself her willing captive. 
If my person, rank, and fortune make 
Me tit, I shall feel honored by the alliance. 

Alf. Have you, as yet, directly sought her own consent ? 

Lor. I own I have not. It seemed to me 
More meet, that I should first obtain your 
Sage approval, ere I ventured on the 
Tender theme to her. 

Alf. Your proposition is in truth, 
A grateful one ; and the long friendship 
Between our houses, makes it doubly 
Pleasing to us, that our common blood 
Should flow in one united channel. 
Our old ancestral legends tell, that on 
The bloody field of Tours, when Christian warriors, 
Of many climes, beneath the mighty Charles Martel, 
Hurled back the sweeping tide of Moslem 
Conquest, which devastated Europe, our noble sires 
Fought side by side ; breasted th' infidel 
Flood together ; and there, too, vowed eternal friendship. 
Their solemn oath, their children have observed, 
x\nd this nevv union is most worthy of 
The ancient bond. 

Lor. I am most proud, my lord 
Of this long cherished recollection. 

Alf. You should have sought 
To woo herself- I fear our daughter is a 
Wilful girl, and may refuse consent, 
Unless her heart approves the choice. 

Ijor. I have indeed approached the theme with her; 



GO THE SPANrSH WIFE. 

But yet, I have obtained no certain warrant 

Of her love, except such general courtesy 

As she might show to one, whose person 

Was not hateful to her. {io Teresa.) 

I crave your ladyship's assistance in my 

Suit ; for well I know, the power a 

Mother holds over the judgment, and the heart, 

Of her fair daughter. 

Ter. As I approve the alliance, 
I will promote its consummation. But 
It were well, that you should, at some appropriate 
Hour, yourself propose your suit. 
Do it boldly ; and when, with many a gentle 
Sigh and maiden blush, she makes the tender 
Secret known to me, I will pretend due 
Ignorance ; but yet, upon the very instant. 
Will speak the potent words which make her youre. 

Alf. A fitting opportunity 
E'en now approaches. See ! here she comes. 
We will now retire. Improve the occasion 
Well, and may you prosper in its issue. 

Enter Laura, l. 

LaiL Good day, my honored father. 
My mother. Good day, my lord, {to Lorenzo.) 
I greet you all. 

A^f. Our friend and visitor, Lorenzo, 
Desires a word with you in private. 

[Exeunt, Alfonso and Tkresa, l. 

Lau. A word with me, alone, my lord ? 

Lor, It is so, my fair Laura. 
I have come to-day to crown our long acquaintance, 
With the offer of my heart and hand. I do 
Beseech you, think not the proposal hasty. • 

I have long intended it. 

Lau. I respect you, Lorenzo, 
But I am free to say, I do not love you ; 
And without love, marriage would be to me 
A horrid, cruel yoke, worse than that 
The veriest slave endures. 

Lor. You may not love me yet, 



THE SPANISH WIFE. 61 

Indeed ; but might not soon your heart be touched 
By long devotion, and by the clearest proof 
Of that deep passion, with which you have 
Inspired me ? 

Lau. I have no hope of such an issue. 

Lor. Why not ? The sight of love 
Begets a flame in others. The proudest 
Peeress in the land, will scent the fragrance 
Of that pure incense, which rises, as a 
Tribute to her charms, from the humblest of her 
Adorers. And why then mayst not thou ? 

Lau. I know it cannot be. 

Lor. 'Tis strange indeed. 

Lau, 'Tis true as strange. 

Lor. Why is this ? Forgive my boldness. 
But I desire to learn, wherein thy heart 
Difiers from all the female hearts in Spain. 

La7i. I will then answer thee, Lorenzo. 
'Tis due our ancient friendship, and to thy pure 
Purpose, that I should answer thee. 
I do already love ! My heart is now no 
Longer free. Not all the charms, of all the 
Graceful gallants in the land, if they were all 
Combined in one, and that one were thy 
Noble self, could move my heart one jot, 
Or could dislodge the mighty monarch, who 
Now reigns, supreme and sovereign there. 

Lor. Can it be ? 
Must I despair at last ? 

Lau. It grieves me much to speak the word, 
But I can make no other answer. Thou 
Hast no hope. 

Lor. My spirit then is crushed. 
I cannot combat with my luckless destiny. 
I pray kind heaven that thou mayest yet be happy, 
Til at no tear may e'er bedim the lustre 
Of that radiant eye ; and that no grief may 
Ever sadden that noble breast — that couch 
Of paradise. Let me then say, farewell ! 

Lau. It must be so ; farewell ! 

Lor. {aside.) Oh, I will be revenged 
For this ! [Exit, Lorenw 



62 THE SPANISH WIFE. 

Lau. I must hasten 
To our rendezvous. My lover, nay, my 
Husband, waits for me. Oh ! what rapture 
When we meet ! [Exit, Laura, r. 

Scene IV. — Studio of Valesquez. {A month is supposed 
to have elapsed.) Valesquez discovered working at a 
portrait l. Painting and busts distributed around the 
apartment. 

Val. {solus.) What a most curious and mysterious 
Circumstance is this ? At each new sitting 
Of the noble subject of this- picture, I can 
See a saddening change upon her features. 

[Stands back and surveijs the painting. 
When first she sat to me, methought my eyes 
Had never rested on such a beauteous 
Vision. I then resolved, that this same painting 
Should be the most exquisite picture which e'er 
Bose to life and loveliness, beneath my 
Pencil. [Pausing and touching up the painting. 

But now, she scarcely seems the same. 
Her smile is gone; her radiant eye hath 
Lost its brihiant lustre. Her ruby cheek, 
That once outvied the bursting rosebud. 
Is pale and wan. That once serene and noble 
Brow is clouded o'er with care. 
Here is some mystery. In very truth this 
Whole business is a mystery ! The 
Lady comes, attended by a noble 
Cavalier, and closely veiled. No name is 
Given, nor address. And when the work is 
Done, himself will call for it ! 
I remember, too, when last she sat to me. 
They seemed constrained, less joyous than before ; 
And the fair bosom of the lady heaved 
Anon, with ponderous sighs, as though 
Some unaccustomed burden crushed upon 
Her once buoyant spirit. I understand 
It not. 'Tis very strange, 'tis very strange ! 



THE SPANISH WIFE. 63 



Enter Servant, l. 



Serv. My master, two distinguished visitors, 
In the anti-chamber, crave admittance 
To your studio. 

Veil. 'Tis an unseemly hour. 

Serv. And yet, they urged their wishes 
"With great earnestness. 

Val. Then bid them enter. ^Exity Serv.^ R. 

Val. (solus.) It cannot be themselves. 
For they were here but yesterday ; and come not, 
By express appointment, till to-morrow. 

Enter Lorenzo and Constanza, l. 

Lor. We pray your pardon 
"For our intrusion ; but we would fain 
Behold the studio of so renowned an artist 
As Valesquez. 

Val. You do me honor, signor! 
I fear your trouble will be poorly paid. 

Cons. Ah ! what is this ? Whose portrait 
Can this be ? Am I deceived ? 

[Examines the portrait. 

Lor. As I live, 'tis she ! 'Tis Laura. 
But how changed ! Have you seen her lately ? 

Co?is. It cannot be the same. 
'Tis but the wreck of Laura, 'tis not Laura's self! 

Lor. I pray you, noble signor. 
Whose portrait is this ? 

Val. I neither know her name. 
Nor rank, nor family. 

Lor. How comes she hither ? Alone ? 

Val. No ; she is attended, at each sitting, 
By a noble cavaher ; by one, who. 
Judging from his coat of arms, his foreign 
Air, and garb, belongs to the English embassy, 
Which now sojourns in Spain. 

Lor. 'Tis strange indeed ! 
Laura and an English cavalier ! And all ^ 
So secret ! And this distressed, afflicted air 



Gl THE SPANISH WIFE. 

Too ! When last I saw her, four weeks since 

She was radiant with bright hope, and joy, and beauty. 

What dark misfortune could 'have caused 

This melancholy change ? {to Valesquez.) 

Know you nothing of her history ? 

Val. Nothing. All I know is, 
She was very gay and beautiful ; now she 
Is very sad and gloomy. 

Lo7\ {to CoNSTANZA.) This attachment, 
Secret though it be, may perhaps account for my 
Rejection at her hands. She confessed her 
Heart remained no longer free. This m.ust 
Be her chosen one, who is her companion 
Here, — this handsome English courtier. 

Co7is. And yet she boasted, 
On the arrival of this English embassy, 
That she would be the last one in all 
Spain, to fall a victim to their dangerous 
Fascinations ! What an egregious error ! 

Lor. And yet I fear me, she has 
Fallen ! If so, I am revenged already. 
{To Valesquez.) With many thanks, most honored 
Signor, we say, adieu ! [Exeunt, l. 

Scene V. — Falace of Don Alfonso, at Madrid. Sir 
Sidney and Laura discovered. 

Lau. My lord, pray tell me, how has fared 
The English embassy, in the great end and 
Purpose of their mission to our court ? 
Will they obtain a Spanish bride for their 
Young prince ? 

Sid. I cannot yet foretell to you. 
The issue of this embassy. 

Lau. I wish the treaty 
Was already ended, that we might 
Set sail for your own native shores, and then our 
Marriage there be openly proclaimed. 
For I am wearied with this forced concealment. 
It is so irksome thus to play the hypocrite. 
{Approaching him.) But, my husband, you seem 
Quite altered from your former mood, I fear 



THE SPANISH WIFE. 65 

Your sated appetite has cooled the fever 

Of your love, and I have sometimes thought 

That you appeared, of late, less loving than 

You v^ere ; that you were even coldly courteous and 

Forbidding; and the horrid thought has tortured me I 

Sid. We Englishmen are not as ardent in 
Our love as you romantic and impetuous 
Spaniards are. 'Tis but a trifling difference 
In our outward seeming. The heart remains 
As fervent as before. 

Lau. And yet you were at first 
More ardent when we loved. Oh, what 
True raptures then were ours, when first our 
Hearts were plighted, and we felt that we were one 

Sid. Honeymoons do not endure forever. 
You seem to have forgotten that. 

La2i. And yet I would have thought, 
That ours had been eternal ; that neither change 
Of time, or place, or circumstance, could e'er 
O'ercloud the brightness of our paradise, 
Or cool the rapture of our love. 

Sid. You Spaniards are too imaginative 
And romantic. You expect too much of those 
Who pledge to you their faith. We must relax 
Our ardor; we should make our love a matter 
Of less consequence. 

Lau. Can you speak thus to me ? 
How sadly have you changed ! After the burning 
Words of love and passion, with which you wooed 
And won me, how can I endure such 
ChiHing, such forbidding sounds ! 
I fear you love me now no longer ! I fear 
That you have never truly loved me ! {weeps.) 

Sid. {relenting.) Weep not thus, my fair one. 
You did not comprehend my meaning. 
I retract those harsh, offensive words. I pray, 
Forgive me ! I love you still. I swear it, 
I love you still, as strongly, purely, fervently, 
As when at first I pressed you to my heart. 

Lau. {looJdng ujj into his face.) Are you 
Assured you love me yet, as well ? 

Sid. I am most sure. 



66 THE SPANISH WIFE. 

Lau, Will you swear it ? Solemnly swear it P 

Sid. I will, my love. 

Lau. Then swear it. 

Sid. {ivith uplifted hand.) I swear, in the 
Face of heaven, I love thee, truly. 
And thee only. 

Lau. Bless thee, my true love, I 
Bless thee for those tender words ; far sweeter 
To me than the sounds of heavenly melody. 
And now, that my poor heart, so sad before, 
Is full of new-born bliss, let us commune of 
Future joys, and of my coming hour of 
Separation from these native scenes. 
I must give due announcement to my 
Kindred, and prepare them for my departure. 
'Twill be a sad experience, truly, to forsake 
These well-remembered scenes, and all the loved 
Ones of my youth ; and sail a stranger to 
A foreign clime. And yet, for him I love, 
I will leave home, and friends, and all things 
Else, however dear they be, and share the future fate 
Of him whom I have chosen. 
Didst thou not offer me as much, my love, 
"When thou didst woo me to thy breast ; 
And why should I be less unselfish, less 
Devoted than thou art ? Oh, no, my husband ! 
Thou dost here possess a faithful heart ; 
One that would boldly dare for thee, the 
Utmost verge of ruin ; — that would freely 
Share the most pernicious freaks of fortune 
Without complaint, were such sad destiny 
To be thy portion. 

Sid. Oh, speak it not. 
No such necessity will e'er be ours. 

Lau. Then tell me of thy happy home ; 
For it must needs be happy where thou art ! 
Let the sweet music of thy words portray 
To my attentive ears, the scene of all 
Our future joys. Whate'er it be, if only 
Thou art with me there, I am content. 
The humblest hovel on the earth, with him 
Whom I adore, will be more bright, more 



THE SPANISH WIFE. 67 

Beautiful, than would the lordliest palace 
Which e'er beheld an emperor's luxury. 

Sid. My love, the ancient castle of my ancestors 
Now rears its towering height o'er one of England's 
Fairest plains ; while high and sturdy oaks, which long 
Have breasted many a wintry storm, encompass 
It on every side. For many a mile, 
On either hand, the golden harvests wave 
Beneath the pressure of a mountain breeze. 
Thou shalt dwell with me there, my love. The landscape's 
Verdant breast shall charm thy glowing eye. 
Our thrifty peasantry shall yearly fill 
Our stores. The proudest nobles of the land 
Shall court thy gracious smiles. We will there 
Often stray beneath the cool and whispering 
Shadows of the ancient forest trees. 
And talk of home, and distant scenes of 
Youthful innocence and joy ; of th' far 
Country, and the honored friends there left 
Behind. And if thou hast no longer there 
The battles of the teeming amphitheatre 
To charm thee, there are pleasures in our 
Land not less exciting, or less perilous, 
Than in thy own. The swiftest steed shall often 
Pant beneath thy precious weight ; and when my 
Jovial kindred crowd my festive halls, 
Where by-gone generations of my race 
Have feasted in their day, thou shalt preside 
The queen of beauty there — the fairest in the land. 
And I will then be proud of thee ; and as 
The cheerful years revolve, unknown to care* 
As honored age creeps o'er us, and we grow 
Old apace, our children shall surround us 
As brave, as noble, and as fair as she 
Who gave them birth ; and they shall tend our steps 
With reverent care, as we descend in peace, 
The easy vale of years. 

Lau. Oh, my husband, 
I pant to see the happy hour when these 
Sweet dreams will be but dreams, and fancy's 
Airy draperies no more, but will become 
Sweeter realities. 



G8 THE SPANISH WIFE. 

Sid. Let us then wait in patience 
Till a propitious fate permits this 
Happy consummation. 

END OF ACT III. 



ACT IV. 

Scene I. — Audieiice Chamber at the Escurial. King 
Philip 07i his Throne; Courtiers and Grandees dis- 
covered R. and L, 

Enter Buckingham, Gp.aham, Cicil, and Rochester, l. 

Buck. We have desired this final audience 
Of your majesty, that we may learn your 
Sovereign purpose, in reference to the 
Marriage of our prince with the Infanta ; 
That we may then forthwith return to England. 

K. Fhil. Our privy council and ourself, have 
Given your proposition our attention. 
Though much desiring to promote this union, 
There are most grave and weighty obstacles 
Contained in the dispatches which you brought, 
Which will oppose a lasting hindrance to 
Our purpose. These all refer to the essential 
Matters of religion wherein our nations 
Differ. That is indeed a vital question. 
The Infanta ne'er could wed your prince, 
Unless your court renounced their creed 
And make submission to our holy church. 

Buck. Those are concessions, sire, which I am 
Well assured, cannot be made. We must at 
Once renounce the enterprise which brought us 
Hither 



THE SPANISH WIFE. 



K. Phil Though this be true, we trust that 

Your short sojourn in our capital 

Has not occurred without its grateful 

Use and purpose. 

Buck. It has not, we assure you. 

■\Ve have been charmed with all the sights 

And pleasures, all the games and festivals, 

Of this your goodly kingdom. "VVe will carry 

Hence, many a kind remembrance 

Of friendship made, of hospitable greetings 

Given, and also, of more tender ties, 

"Which have been here contracted. 

K. Phil. We are pleased, 
That Spain has had her charms for you. 
Bear with you, to your gracious king, 
Our cordial greeting and regard ; and these are 
The dispatches, in answer to your own, 
"With which we now entrust you. Present 
Him also with this casket. It contains 
Eich jewels, which, I trust he will accept 
As a memento of our high regard for him. 
And though mysterious fate has not allowed 
The union of our crown upon one single 
Brow ; let peace and friendship reign throughout 
All coming time, between our happy realms. 
Such is my prayer, and such, T trust, is his. 

[ Gives dispatches and casket to Buckingham. 
Buck. Both of these shall be delivered by myself, 
With th' utmost care and quick dispatch 
According to your majesty's command. 
To our dread sovereign's gracious hand. 

Scene II. — Apartment in Don Alfonso's Palace. Sidney 
and Laura discovered seated at a table covered with 
oranges^ melons ^ ajid other fruit. 

Sid. My fair Laura, at length, to- day, 
We have received our farewell audience from 
Your king. To-morrow we shall sail for England. 

Lau. {surprised.) To-morrow? You 
Give me but short notice truly, to make the 
Needful preparation for our departure. 



70 THE SPANISH WIFE. 

Sid. We were summoned, by a special order, 
Quite unexpectedly, before your monarch's presence. 
The Supreme Council of the realm, had just 
Concluded, not to accept the terms proposed 
By our good king, for the espousal of 
The Infanta; and they delayed not to inform us. 
After so sad an issue of our toils, 
"We must needs quickly leave the scene 
Of our defeat. The splendor of Madrid 
Is darkness to us now ; no light beams forth 
Amid its gorgeous palaces, save that which 
Issues still from thy bright eyes alone ! 

Lau. Jest not, my love, at such an 
Hour, so solemn, so important. Could you 
Not yet delay one week, till I were in 
Much better readiness t' accompany you ? 

Sid. It is impossible. The prince. 
Our master, has commanded that we instantly 
Set sail for England. But is it needful that you 
Should now accompany me ? 

Lau. {solenmly.) Can the world live 
Without the glorious sun ? No more could I 
Exist without the hght of thy dear form. 
Think of it not, I do beseech you. 

Sid. But listen to me, fair one ! 
Our embassy returns to England now, without 
The high-born bride, which had been destined for 
Our prince. The members of our company 
All sail in the same fleet. It were 
An insult to them, and to our baflled 
Leader, who sails with us, were I more fortunate than he 
To bear away with me a blooming. 
Noble bride, the fairest in all Spain. 

Lau. I cannot hve without you. 
I know it well. Do not insist upon it. 

Sid. But you can surely wait in 
Patience till my quick return ? 
It is most probable, that new conditions 
For this alliance, will be proposed hereafter, 
To which your gracious sovereign will accede. 
Then the Infanta will be borne to England, 
And then you shall accompany her, 



THE SFANISH WIFE. 71 

The brightest star that glitters in her train ; 

I, myself, will then revisit you, and 

Lead you back in joyous triumph to my home. 

Lau. Alas ! my husband, 
That event will ne'er occur. The wounded pride 
Of your most noble prince will ne'er permit him 
To "make another proposition to our court ; 
"While this enforced concealment of our union 
Presses heavily upon my drooping spirit, 
My cheeks are pale and care is printed 
On my brow. The gloomy day is cheerless to me, 
And 'tis only the sweet thought, that when 
Each evening comes, I shall then hear again 
Your welcome voice, and feel your kind 
Caress, — 'tis this bliss only which supports me. 
But were you wholly absent, life would be a 
Burden, far, far too heavy to be borne. 

Sid. Nonsense ! You would 
Soon become accustomed to my absence. 
I will return again, and quickly too. 

Lau. It is impossible. 
I know my heart too well ; — 'tis quite impossible. 
I do beseech you, persist not in a 
Resolution, which would seal my very death I 

Sid. I cannot help it — I fear 
It must be so. There can be no alternative. 

Lau. Oh, no, it cannot — cannot be ! 
And is it possible, that you, yourself, 
Should be thus wilhng to desert me ? Oh, think, 
Sir William, what have I done for you ? 
And what am I not willing yet to do ? 
I am ready e'en to leave my father's 
Halls, my friends, my native land, and all 
Its dear remembrances ; — all would I 
Leave for you ; and can you now be willing to 
Desert me ? Oh, no, no, it cannot be ! 
Your absence hence would cast a wan and hideous 
D solation o'er the universe. This tortured 
Frame, had better far, lie mouldering in 
The long and dreamless slumber of the grave 
Than that it should be racked by the 
Distracting agonies of desertion. 



72 THE SPANISH WIFE. 

And neglect. Oh, think of all our vows 

Of endless constancy and love. Think of our 

Pictured dreams of fadeless joy and bliss. Think 

Of all these, and then you cannot leave me. 

You will then take me with you ; press me 

To your breast forever ; and we shall drink 

Eternal joys from the rich cup of our true love ! 

Sid. No ! Do not now deceive yourself 
I say it cannot be ^ nay more, it shall 
Not be ! I have said it. You must 
Eemain till my return. Be not misled 
By groundless and illusive hopes. 

^Lau. {Pausing and assuming a determined air.) Then^ 
sir, if such be your base and unfeeling purpose ; if you are 
capable of thus trifling with the affections and the heart of 
one who has freely sacrificed her all for you, in reliance on 
your honor ; then know, sir, that I will accompany you. 
I am your wedded wife, to whom alone your solemn faith 
is plighted, and with whose destiny you have united yours 
forever. You shall not leave me. It is my right. If you 
are so strangely lost to all due sense of honor, shame, 
humanity, I will not permit you, having wrecked my hap- 
piness, also to ruin my fair fame, and the reputation of 
those I love. I will go instantly to the Duke of Bucking- 
ham ; — to him who, you say, would be offended at my pro- 
posal to accompany you. I will tell him the story of our 
attachment and our marriage. I will obtain his permis- 
sion, nay his command, that if you now leave Spain at all, 
you shall not go without me. 

Sid. Then, madam, you may execute your purpose. — 
Go ! go to the Duke of Buckingham. Tell him that you 
are, as you assert, my wedded wife, and he will laugh you 
to very scorn. He w ill tell you that you are mistaken. — 
He will assure you that I am already married in England. 
He will tell you that you arc but my ?nistress / and that 
he cannot have mistresses on board the fleet intended for 
the Infanta. Go — tell the Duke you are my wife, for- 
sooth ! What a delusion! My wife, indeed ! Ha! ha ! 

Lau. Oh, God ! then 
I am ruined ! ruined ! ruined ! 

[Stupejled with agnny^ she falls on the floor. Sid- 
ney becomes much affected. After a pause he carries 
her to a sofa.'] 



THE SPANISH WIFE. 78 

Sid. (solus.) She would compel me 
Thus to utter the unwelcome words. Alas ! 
'Tis over now ! Eest there, unhappy one ! 
I have wronged indeed a noble heart. 
But 'tis too late to undo the accursed deed. 
Now is my time for escape ! One kiss more, 
My fair, my injured Laura, 'tis the last [kisses her.) 
Porever ! Never shall I press again those 
Tender lips, which have so often uttered to me 
Words of more than mortal love. So farewell, 
Forever ! To-morrow I shall be sweeping 
O'er the boundless deep. I may forget thee ; 
But, I fear, I cannot be forgotten. 
Conscience! let thy voice be hushed; and let 
Bemorse be dead within my breast. 
But hold ! her portrait ; ah, yes ! that mute and feeble 
Image of her beauty, that sad memento 
Of her wrongs. I must not fail to take that 
With me. It will be all I shall possess 
Of my fair, devoted, injured Laura. 
Yes, I will hasten to the studio of Valesquez, 
Instantly. 

Scene III. — Apartment in Don Alfonso's Palace, 

Enter Don Alfonso a7id Donna Teresa. 

Alf. Have you not seen, of late, the strange, mysterious 
Sadness of your daughter ? 

Ter, I have ; it is too marked 
To be unnoticed. 

Alf. What, think you, is the cause of it? 

Ter. I know not. Ne'er before has 
Such despondency o'ershadowed her 
Once joyous countenance. 

Alf. I must question her. 
Per some days past she has endured much 
Misery ; and it was but yesterday, when, 
Unexpectedly I entered her apartment, 
She seemed the hapless victim of some fierce 
Convulsion ; some cruel spasm of distress ; 
And yet, to all my earnest questionings 



74 THE SPANISH WIFE, 

I gained no answer ; nothing but her tears. 

{Riftgs for a Servant.) 
Doubtless she will now confess the truth 
"With kind and dutiful affection. 

Enter Servant. 

Wait on your young 

Mistress, and inform her, we wish 

To see her here, immediately. ^Exit Servant, 

Ter. You remember, doubtless, 
That one of the English cavaliers has 
Been most marked in his attentions. 
"Whether he has offered marriage, I know not. 
But doubtless, the departure of the embassy 
To-day, which is now rumored through 
Madrid, may have distressed her; as her 
Friend and suitor has departed with them. 

Enter Laura, l, 

Alf. We have observed with pain, 
That you have been of late most sad. 
Our love constrains us to speak freely to you, 
And inquire the cause ; so that, if we 
Can haply cure it, we may instantly attempt 
The pleasing task. 

La2i. Ah, my honored father, 
Mine is a distress, which the kind hand of your 
Affection ne'er can heal. The tortures of 
The wounded spirit are incurable. 
No earthly balm can soothe the anguish 
Of this torn and lacerated heart. It seems that 
Time but adds intensity to its deep bitterness ; 
Wliilo memory, with a willing and relentless hand, 
Feeds the burning flame with its eternal fuel. 
I shall ne'er be happy more ! {iveeps.) 

Alf. What is the nature 
Of your distress ? Speak it boldly. 

Lau. Oh, I cannot, dare not. 

Ter. Why can you not ? To whom 
Should your secret troubles be revealed, 



THE SPANISH WIFE. 75 

Unless it be to us ? 

Lau. It will afflict you more 
To know the truth, than if you knew it not. 
Your ignorance now is bliss indeed. 

Ter. No, it is not. This long 
Suspense augments our misery, and it becomes 
Intolerable. Speak at once, without reserve. 
Here comes vour brother Pedro. 'Tis right ; 

That he should hear the history of your wo, 
And if it should be needful, to avenge it. 

E7iter Don Pedro, r. 

He, too, has marked the deep, mysterious 
Sadness which oppresses you. 

Fed, I have. How is this? 
Do I suspect aright the horrid truth ? 
Who has thus dared to trifle with thee ? Thou comeBt 
Of the proudest race in Spain. Princes might 
Peel honored with thy fair aUiance ; and it would 
Not be the first who mingled with our line. 
I swear, it were not prudent for an emperor 
To dishonor thee. Thy snowy arms might ^ 
Porm a downy couch, fit for a god to revel in. 
How is this ? . 

Lau. I was wooed and won by Sir Wilham 
Sidney, a noble member of the English embassy. 
Persuaded by true love, and his own eager prayers, 
I married him in secret, and I was deceived, 
Por he had no free hand or heart to give. 
He w^as already wed in his own land, 
And now he has, at last, deserted me ! (weeps.) 

Fed. Ye heavens ! can it be possible ! 
Thee ruined ! thee deceived, and thee dishonored! {patises,) 
Thou God of vengeance, let me draw thy sword, 
And never rest until I sheathe it in the 
Inmost heart of him who has so basely 
"Wronged her ! Ye solemn shades of our 
Departed ancestors, look down from your 
Serene abodes, on this unhappy daughter ^ 
Of your race, and fill my anguished soul with 
Vengeance !— vengeance !— vengeance ! {crosses,) 



76 THE SPANISH WIFE. 

Hark ! I hear it ! A hollow, shrieking sound 
Issues from their ancient graves. It goes abroad 
Upon the winged wind, and cries aloud : wo ! wo ! 
To thee and thine, unless thou wip'st away 
This damned stain upon our pure escutcheon, 
With the guilty blood of the offender! 
And I will do it, by the God of heaven, 
I will do it ! 

Lau. Do it not, I beseech you. 
For my sake harm him not. I love him. 
I forgive him ! and I love him still ! 

Peel. Ask not for mercy, in his behalf, 
He has deeply, foully, basely wronged thee ! 
Human baseness has no deeper depths of 
Injury than that which he has sounded, 
For he cannot right thee, if he would. 
He cannot do thee justice, or suppress the 
Bitter, jeering malace of the prating world. 
Thou art ruined, and he did it knowingly. 
"Where is he ? 

Lau. He sailed but yesterday 
With the English embassy, and he is now beyond 
The reach of vengeance. 

Fed. Why didst thou thus permit 
Him to escape ? 

Lau. Because I feared thy furious 
Arm. I trembled for the precious life of 
Him, I value more than life itself. 
Though he has wronged me, he did it in 
The burning heat of passion. I still believe 
He loved me. He could not be so base. 
So false, so cruel. He had some unknown 
Cause, I knew not of, to plead in his excuse. 

Fed. It is thy fault that this unequalled 
Villain hath escaped. But hold ! The day 
Of vengeance will arrive. It may be slow, 
But it will yet be sure. 

Aff. Were it not well for you 
To leave awhile these hapless scenes, so 
Sad'ning by the desolation memory 
Gives them ? 

Ter. Yes. Let us leave Madrid for a 



THE SPANISH WIFE. 77 

Short season. Let us hasten to the 
Castle of your ancestors, which rears its 
Ancient towers amid the shady groves of 
Andalusia. There our daughter may 
Eegain her peace of mind. The quiet scenes 
Of verdant nature, where rural innocence 
And beauty reign, unmarred by human 
Passion and unfeeling baseness may refresh 
And cheer thee. For there, shut out from 
All the stormy tumults of a guilty world, 
Alone with God and Nature, — there, at least, thou 
Mayest be happy, and forget thy bitter wo. 

Alf. I approve thy purpose. 
Let it be so. 

Lau. I will obey 
Your kind request. 

Scene IV. — Castle of Don Alfonso in Andalusia. Laura 
discovered standing on one of the terraces of the Castle. 
Mountains and forests in the rear. Time, evening. 

Lau. (solus.) Lovely nature, oh, how calm and peaceful 
Seems thy verdant breast ! Thou look'st as tho' no 
Anguish, such as mine, could e'er exist 
Amid thy rural and sequestered scenes. 
'Tis here the storms of human misery 
Appear for ever hushed. Here bitter 
Wrong and outrage seem unknown. Here love 
And concord do appear to be eternal 
As is the long and calm succession of thy years ! 

{Suddenly arousing herself 
He's gone for ever ! Yes, my lover, husband ; 
The lord of this poor, broken heart ; the noblest 
Of his race ; and yet, alas ! a beauteous devil t 
Stay, thou rolling ocean ! Stay your rushing 
Waves ! Ye bear away upon your bosoms, 
Far, far from me, my very heart, my soul, 
My life ! Oh, where shall I repose this 
Aching head? A burning fire consumes me, 
Intense as that which flamed of old on 
Molock's iron altars ; and no earthly [8,] 

Antidote can quench its raging fury. 



78 THE SPANFSH WIFE. 

Oh, that a polar ocean, with its 

Waters fresh from Lapland's frozen zone, 

Might lave this bursting brow, and cool the 

Raging of this fierce volcano. M}^ heart ! 

It breaks ! it breaks ! Its fibres part asunder ! 

'Tis torn in pieces! Oh, the agony of this most 

Desolate hour ! Oh, the bitterness of this 

Farewell pang. Come death ! thou fell destroyer 

Of our race, come, end my wo, and with thy iron 

Hand, destroy in utter wreck this broken, 

This distracted heart ! 

Enter Leon, with a bouquet^ l. 

Leo7i. "Well, my fair mistress, accept this 
Beauteous nosegay. It was culled, this very eve, 
From the blooming bed of roses, planted by 
Your own fair hands, when last you 
Visited the castle. 

Lau. I accept it, Leon, 
"With my thanks. But I pray you leave me. 
I am not now in th' mood for further 
Converse. (Exit^ Leon, r. 

[Exmnining the roses.) Ah, what a strong 
itemembrancer is this ? What a potent emblem 
Of tiie heavenly innocence of these once happy scenes ! 
What a memento of the peaceful joys. 
The unclouded hopes of my bright girlhood's years ! 
I do remember well the day I planted that rose-bed. 
I was happy then ! Yes, I was happy then ! 
My heart was cheerful as the warbling 
Nightingale. Then all things wore a beauteous 
Hue, of rosy hope and loveliness. 
Alas ! ye days of youthful joy ! Ye are all fled 
For ever ! How has the brightness of my 
Youthful being changed to horrid gloom and sadness I 
How have my air built bovvers of bliss all fled 
Like morning clouds away ! Ye azure dreams 
Of future jo}^ ! Ye mystic hopes of wedded love ! 
I bid ye all farewell, for ever ! Never shall 
I feel again the rapture of bright hope ! Now 
A]\ is cheerless gloorn ! 



79 THE SPANISH WIFE. 

Who would have e'er expected it ? 
What crime have I committed ; whom have I 
Wronged, that I should thus be singled out, 
The victim of fate's cruel, bitter hate ? 
For it has ever been my joy to heal the sorrowing 
Heart, and wipe away the mourner's tear. 
But now I am myself the mourner, whose heavy 
Grief exceeds the sum of human wretchedness. 
Where can I look for peace ? Or who will soothe 
My wo ? (Holds up and kisses a crucifix.) 
Oh ! Holy Virgin ! pure and spotless emblem 
Of heavenly love and pity, whose ears are ever 
Open to the cries of the grief-burdened soul, 
Impart to me that consolation which this earth 
Can ne'er bestow ! For the merits of thy 
Glorious Son, the prince of paradise, speak joy 
To this most desolate heart ! 

Enter Don Alfonso and Pedro, r. s. e. They regard 
Laura ^vith interest and in silence. 

Laii. (solus.) Could I but now be near him, 
Whom I do love, so blindly but so well ; could I 
But hear his voice, and hold sweet converse with 
Him, though he be another's, I might at least 
Endure the gloomy burden of existence. 
For he might utter words of sympathy, — nay, 
Even accents of repentance, (jjauses in thought.) 
Yes ! I will do it. I will see him. But then, 
My pride rebels against the journey. 
Shall I, the daughter of the proudest house 
In Spain, so far forget the dignity which still 
Is due my kindred, as well as to myself, 
As thus to cross the treacherous ocean. 
And go a wanderer forth, a suppliant, 
To a foreign chme, to feed upon the hollow 
Smiles of him who has deceived, deserted me, 
And who may e'en again repulse me? (pauses.^) 
And yet, I shall but perish here ! 
I look around me, and naught gives me 
Pleasure. These well-remembered scenes, 
The ancient castle of my brave forefathers, 



80 THE SPANl?rT WIFE. 

The leafy forest, and the breezy lawn, 

The shady grotto, and the murmuring rivulet , 

All are most cheerless and repulsive now. E'en my 

Little spaniel tries all its well-accustomed 

Tricks in vain ; it fails to soothe me, as in 

Other, happier days ! 

Fedro. {to Don Alfonso, aside.) 
Her wounded heart will utter sounds of 
Plaintive wo, just like a broken harp, left as 
Useless wreck upon some lonely and deserted 
Shore ; whose trembling strings do sigh and 
Moan discordantly, in every passing wind. 

(Laura starts ujy at perceiving them, 

Lau. Ah ! my father, brother ! 
Are 5^ou here ? 

Aif. We have unexpectedly been 
The witnesses of your grief 

Fed. If thou art still afflicted with the 
Perfidy of men ; if thou art sickened 
At the vanity of earth, then seek the calm 
And holy silence of the convent; and there, 
Shut out from every mortal care, forgetful 
Of the miseries and the illusions of the 
World, in sacred converse with kind heaven 
And its blest inhabitants, thou mayest 
Find peace. 

Lau. My brother, / cannot ! 
To me the gloomy silence of the cloister would be 
Intolerable. Within its still recesses. 
The tortured, jaundiced mind, deprived 
Of all external themes whereon to waste 
Its morbid energies, would then turn inward 
On itself; with vulture cruelty, would feed 
On its own quivering vitals ; and picture 
Porth the horrors of its woes with more intense 
And fearful vividness. 'Twould be a living 
Death ; a human hell ! I cannot ! 

Fed. You doubtless think so now. 
But this perverted feeling soon would pass away. 
Others have found a heavenly balm for 
The same woes, in the same holy remedy. 

hau. I know^ it is impossible ! 



THE SPANISH WIPE. 81 

1^0 ; I will not make the vain attempt. 

But with my father's kind permission, 

(And I am well assured, his generous heart 

Denies me nothing,) I will visit England ; 

Will see my truant lover once again ; 

And if I could dwell near him for a time, I feel 

I may be happy yet. I cannot tear his image 

From my breast. I have already made 

The vain attempt, and oft renewed the struggle 

O'er again ; I might as well presume with 

This weak arm, to pluck the towering Alps 

From their eternal beds, as banish from 

My breast the memory and the love of him, 

To whom my heart's affections have been 

Given. No ! Let me go, my generous father ; 

Do, I beseech you. Let me see him once 

Again. 

Alf. I would do anything 
For her I deeply love. And we will speak again 
Of this hereafter. But see ! the evening star 
Now twinkles o'er the ruggid brow of yonder 
Western mountain. Night hastens on apace. 
Please you retire to your chamber, 
And take your wonted rest. 

Lau. I will obey your wishes. (Exity JLaura, L. 

Alf. What think you, Pedro, 
Of this proposition ? 

Fed. Strange and startling vagaries, 
Do often mark the sore diseased mind. 
Her wrongs have almost crazed her. 

{pauses in meditation. 

Alf. Well, what say you ? 

Ped. I am in favor of her proposition. 

Alf. For what reason ? 

Fed. The journey may dispel her 
Sadness. But I have still a deeper purpose. 
I have sworn before the sight of heaven, that 
I will avenge her crying wrongs, and I will 
Do it. Let us accompany her. Our 
Present leisure renders it convenient. 
My seeming pretext will be to protect 
Her, and promote her wishes. But my real 



82 THE SPANISH WIFE. 

Purpose shall be, to plunge this dagger deep 
Into her base deceiver's heart. If I perish 
In the execution, it is well. You can then 
Conduct her, her wrongs avenged, her honor 
Vindicated, to her paternal home again. 

Alf. I will think of it. 
"""i may be so. 

Scene V. — Palace of Don Lorenzo. 

Enter Laura, l. 

Lau. (solus.) Yes, e'en the distant and uncertain thought 
Of seeing him I love, fills me again 
With hope, and hope to me is life and endless joy. 
Oh, love ! how most mysterious and absolute 
Is thy power ! Thy golden chain, unseen, 
Extends o'er distant lands and oceans, 
And binds as one in rapture or in wo, 
Hearts as distant 
As the poles asunder. 

Enter Leon, l. 

Leon. Madam, a visitor 
Bequests admittance to your presence. 

Lau. Bid him enter. \^Exit Leoriy S, 

I shall at least behold him, hear him, 
Speak to him again. And that at least is 
Something ! 

Enter Lorenzo, l. 

Lor. My fairest Laura, 
I crave your pardon for my rude intrusion. 

Lau, There is no pardon needed ; 
You are welcome. 

Lor. You have confided,to your friend, my 
Sister, Constanza, the secret of your 
Deep distress, and she has ventured 
To appoint me partner of her trust. 
You have been basely, foully wronged. 
/ would ne'er have wron^rcd you thus ! 



IHT: SPANISH WIFE. 



83 



Lmi. You presume, sir, far 
Too much upon my confidence. 

Lor. Nay, forgive me. 
For thou<rh I have been once repulsed, 
And though I know the nature of your wrong, 
I still possess the same regard, the same 
Deep love for vou. Then let me make, once more, 
The offer of this rejected heart and hand. 
Will you not now be mine ? I forgive my 
First repulse. Your second marriage 
Will remove the ills inflicted by the first 

Lmi. Sir, you little understand 
My nature, or my present feeUngs- 

Lor. But can you not be won 
By the long devotion of true love ? 

Lau. Learn, sir, that when 
The heart of a true woman has once been 
Touched with love, no arts, no sedulous 
Attentions, nor gentle wooings can e er 
Reduce her from her first allegiance. 
Lor. But this Enghsh courtier has 
Deceived you. He is most unworthy of such love 

As this. 

Lau. Your arguments are useless. ^ 
A woman's heart, once captured, tho' by 
A faithless enemy, is no longer free ; 
And it remains a willing captive still ! 

ior. 'Tis strano-e philosophy- I 
Understand it not. But let us both forget 
The past. Keceive me now as your accepted suitor, 
As your husband ! 

Lau. Sir, it is impossible. 
I would not cheat you with the worthless gitt 
Of a mere hand, without 

A heart; and this devoted heart, though it has been 
Deceived, would never, if it could throw off the 
Sweet allegiance of its first eternal lord. 

Xor. Then you refuse again ? 

Lau. You may understand it so. 

Lor. Then, madam, you shall 
Repent it. I will pubhsli your disgrace 
Throughout Madrid. Its proudest palace 



84 THE SFANISII WIFE. 

And its most humble hovel, all shall echo 
With the jeering clamor of your infamy. 
E'en the crowded amphitheatre, where once you 
Eeigned the queen of beauty, at your future 
Presence shall resound with groans and hisses. 

Late. Sir, leave my presence ! 
If you are base enough t' insult misfortune 
You are unworthy of my notice. 
I despise your dispicable threats. 
My conscious innocence and purity 
Allow me to defy your brutal maUce, 
And treat your vengeance with contempt. 
Leave my presence, sir ! 

Lor. I swear to execute my threat. (Exit Lorenzo^ L.) 

Lau. Thus does misfortune ever 
Hasten on misfortune, and wrong accumulate 
On wrong. Let once the wheel of the blind 
Goddess turn, and let the worthiest of mankind 
Descend, then do the vilest hasten to oppress 
The hapless victim, with their base and 
Despicable censure. Oh, conscious innocence 1 
Thou art thine own reward, and it is all 
Thou hast to boast of! 

Re-enter Lorenzo, l. 

Lor. Fairest Laura, my deathless passion 
For thy charms o'ercomes my struggling hate. 
Once more, I pray you, listen to my earnest 
Suit, and grant it. Come ! My carriage now, is 
Waiting at the garden gate. Let us fly through 
The hanging foliage. I swear to you 
Eternal love and constancy. 

La2i. Sir, leave me, I again insist upon 
It. I abhor your importunities. 

Lor. Nay, I will not be denied. 
Come with me. Let us hasten hence, (seizes her.) 

Lau. Oh, whither shall I look 
For refuge ? My father, brother, help ! help ! 

Enter Pedro, l. s. e. 
Fed. What means this 



THE SPANISH WIFE. 85 

Strange alarm, this horrid violence ? 
Lorenzo, have you indeed become the 
Despicable villain that you seem ? 

Lau. He would compel me, by 
Foul rudeness, a dishonored fugitive, 
To fly with him. Save me from him ! 

Lor, Thou hast come to intercept her 
From my arms. I swear, this double 
Insult shall be atoned, ere long, by 
Double vengeance. 

Fed. Die, thou malicious villain ! 

( They fight ^ and Lorenzo falls.) 
In hell thou mayest execute thy basely 
Threatened vengeance on the innocent, 
The unfortunate. Die ! (again stabbing him.) 
And descend to where thy kindred devils 
Dwell. They may assist thee in thy 
Hellish work. 

Lor. I know her heart is broken ; 
That is revenge enough ! (dies.) 

Fed. My injured Laura: 
The punishment of those who wronged thee, 
Has been begun already. 

Lau. Here, I beseech you. 
Let your vengeance end for ever. 

Scene VI. — Audience Chamber of Philip II. The King 
with several courtiers and officers discovered. 

K. Phil, (to Offi.) Summon Don Pedro to our presence 
Instantly. (Exit Offi,cer yR.) 

The wonton murder of a Spanish grandee. 
Without just cause or provocation, cannot 
Be permitted, not even to the highest noble 
In the land. I must inquire of this 
Sad deed. 

Enter Pedro, Laura, and Alfonso, preceded by an 
Officer. 

Don Pedro, you have been charged with 
Th' murder of Lorenzo. How is this ? 



86 THE SPANISH WIFE. 

Have you thus stained your honored sword 
With innocent blood ? 

Fed. Sire, I did the deed 
To vindicate that outraged honor. 
The dead Lorenzo thus presuming on the 
Ancient friendship of our houses, as well 
As the deep injury inflicted on 
My sister, by another, now beyond the 
Reach of justice, pressed his suit with 
Boldness; nay, with insult. And when his 
Hated alliance was declined, he would have 
Added force and brutal violence to his suit. 
My injured sister did implore deliverance. 
I hoard her suppliant cries. I came to 
Her relief, just at the instant of her 
Greatest peril, and I rescued her by slaying 
Her most dastardly assailant. This, my liege, 
Was the occasion of the deed. 

K. Phil. You have a fair and a sufficient 
Witness here, who may confirm, or may deny 
The truth of your defense. Speak, lady ! 

Lau. My liege, 'tis true. 
As my brother hath declared. Even 
To the last syllable 'tis true. To his 
Avenging sword, I owe my honor, and 
My safety. 

K. Phil. It is enough, fair lady. 
Don Pedro, thou art free ; acquitted of the 
Charge, which had thus reached my ears. 
Stern justice does commend thy deed. But thou 
Speak'st of a great wrong which thy sister 
Had endured from one now far beyond the 
Arm of justice. What does that mean ? 

Ped. My liege, one of the noble 
Cavaliers, who late bore message from the 
King of England to this court, wooed and won 
My sister for his bride. After their secret. 
Though honorable nuptials, he declared 
That he was already wed, and left her 
In her tears and desolation. 

K. Phil. Infamous deceiver ! 

Ped, And what is stranger still, 



THE SPANISH WIFE. 87 

Her widowed heart can find no rest. 
The knowledge of her wrong cannot release 
Her spirit from the tender chain which bound 
Her to the beloved form of her deceiver. 
And now she asks to travel where he dwells, 
That she may there, at least, be near him. 
She thinks 'twould soothe her anguish. 

K. Phil. 'Tis very strange. And yet- 
'Tis not strange ! The undying constancy 
Of woman's love, I know full well. And I'm not 
Amazed at this unequalled tenderness. 

Peel. Does my liege approve 
Of her strange purpose ? 

K. Phil. I do. Let me fulfil 
Her heart's desire. Let her go to England in such 
State of splendor as befits her noble 
Hank and lineage. 

Ped. While I accede to her 
Eequest, it would afford me opportunity 
To punish the guilty culprit. 

K. Phil. That I also will approve. 
And that you may possess complete impunity 
To execute your righteous purpose; 
I will entrust you with despatches 
To the English court, touching the marriage 
Of the Infanta. You shall go thither 
As my ambassador, and receive all 
The high honors due to the representative 
Of the ancient crown of Spain. 

Lau. And yet, my sovereign, 
He shall not execute his uttered threat 
Of vengeance. I had rather that the sword, 
Now reeking with the wonton blood of dead 
Lorenzo, should in dishonor perish. 
Than that it should be foully stained 
With the blood of him whose love I cherish 
Better far than life itself I will prevent 
A deed so base in him, so sad to me. 

K. Phil. Let that be as 
You wish. I will perform my promise 
To him. Make your preparations instantly 
To sail to England. 

END OF ACT IV, 



88 THE SPANISH WIFE. 



ACT V. 

Scene I. — Cabinet %n Windsor Palace. King James 
discovered reading a letter. 

K. James, (solus.) This last despatch I've just received 
From Spain, is more desponding than the 
Rest. The Spanish king becomes more haughty, 
The princess is more frivolous, and the 
Ministers are more vexatious in their 
Terms ; while Buckingham, as is his wont, 
Is most exacting and unyielding. I doubt not, 
This expedition will entirely fail. 

Enter Page, l. 

Page. My liege, Prince Charles and the 
Duke of Buckingham have just arrived from Spain. 

Exit s. E. 

Enter Buckingham and Prince Charles, l. 

K. James. Welcome ! welcome to your homes 
And England. You are both doubly welcome ! 
Your arrival is unexpected, but it is 
Not less agreeable. 

Btick. Our resolution to return 
"Was sudden, resulting from the hopeless 
Aspect of the negotiations concerning the 
Infanta. These do I bear to you, from the King of Spain 
(Gives despatches and casket to the king.) 

K. James. I prejudged that such would be 
The fruitless end of your endeavors, from the news 
I last received from you. 

Charles. I assure your majesty 
'Tis not the Infanta's fault, that she regrets 
To-day, the absence of a husband. 
The blame is theirs, whose hearts and feelings 



THE SPANISH WIFE. 89 

Were not enlisted in the affair. 

K. James. Where'er the fault may rest, 
I am content. I embrace my son once 
More, secure, unharmed, amid' ten thousand 
Perils. That is most valued of all good 
Fortune ; while most intense have been my thoughts of 
Fear and dread, lest accident, or death might 
Be the issue, and the penalty of this most 
Strange and silly expedition. 

Buck. My liege, although your son 
Did not obtain the Infanta's hand, yet his late 
Journey has been useful to him. I will 
Vouch for it, that he's much wiser now 
Than when he started forth from England. 
He has made observations large and deep, 
Of men, of laws, of nature, and of women, 
Which will vastly profit him, whenever 
He assumes the heavy weight which rests 
Upon a monarch's shoulders. 

K. James. I am much pleased to hear it 
For all this, I must reward yourself, 
Most noble Duke. Continue to be first 
In my high confidence. Anon, we will 
Look elsewhere for a princess for my son. 
I have just received a friendly greeting 
From the King of France, who offers me 
An aUiance with his noble house. 

Buck. It may be well t' accept it. 
But with your majesty's permission, we 
Will now retire, and recruit our wasted strength, 
After all the great fatigues of our long journey. 

K. James. I permit you ; go ! 

Scene II. — Palace of Sir William Sidney. A sple^idid 
Portrait hangs in a conspicuous position. Sidney 
(dressed in mourning,) intently gazing on the picture, 

Sid. (solus.) That is the truthful and expressive image 
Of my loving, injured, and confiding Laura, 
Drawn by the master hand of the greatest 
Limner in all Spain. Just so her dark eye 
Beamed on me with rapturous passion, 



90 THE SPANISH WIPE. 

When fli'st I called her mine, and pressed her 

To my throbbing heart, amid the fragrant 

Bowers of her once happy home. 

There, too, is her serene and noble brow, 

Her queen-hke neck, her fascinating smile ; 

All speaking forth the generous, confiding, 

Loving, and impassioned woman. 

And that angelic form, alas ! how 

Have I seen it racked with keenest agony, 

At the announcement of my own perfidious 

Baseness ; baseness indeed without a parallel. 

Oh, memory ! memory ! thou deadly 

Scorpion of the guilty mind, would that 

I could blunt thy poisonous sting ! In the 

Desolation which 1 feel, I may 

Compute the wretchedness of her whom 

I have deeply wronged. Would that my own 

Afflicted heart might now commune with 

Hers, in sympathy of grief Oh, could I 

Hear her tender voice, but utter accents of 

Forgiveness, 'twould be indeed a heavenly 

Consolation ! But that can never be ! 

E'en now she mourns alone in her own distant land. 

Enter Servant, l. 

Serv. A nobleman has just arrived. 
And asks to be admitted to your presence. 

Sid. Show him in without delay. {Exit Servant.) 
Who can this stranger be, who thus 
Intrudes upon my decorous seclusion ? 

Enter Duke of Buckingham, l. 

Buc7{. Ah ! my old friend Sidney, 
I come to cheer you in your present tedious 
Absence from the joyful world. I trust my 
Presence is at least agreeable ? 

Sid: Most assuredly, my lord, it is. 
I am most pleased to see you. 

Buck. We have passed together 
Amid too raanv scenes of rich adventure, 



THK SPANISH WIFE. 91 

At home, and o'er the seas, not to be agreeable 
Companions. By the way, and to direct your 
Gloomy thoughts, have you e'er heard 
What has become of that fair Andalusian, 
"Whom you so completely victimized, 
In Madrid ? Ha ! that was well done! 

(Sidney appears shocked at the allusion.^ 

Sid. My lord, jest not on such 
A theme. It is more tender to me than 
You may imagine. I pray you not to trifle 
With it. Speak of anything but that. 

Btick. How is this ? AVhat mean you? 
You have indeed become most scrupulous 
And strangely crammed with conscience all at once I 
I am quite unprepared for this. 

Sid. Sir, behold that portrait ! {points to portrait.) 
'Tis the speaking image of 

The noblest of her sex, whom your most vile and • 
Damned sophistry taught me to ruin 
And deceive. I am not yet the hardened 
Villain, to whom such deeds of infamy 
Are facile or accustomed. But misled 
By your unjust philosophy, I yielded to 
An evil genius, and was guilty of a wrong, 
Which, I fear, not the remorse and 
Deep regret of coming years can e'er atone. 

Buck. This is nonsense ! Are you then 
So week a mortal as to be affected by a 
Woman's tears? Know you not, that they have all 
A most obedient, briny-flood within them, 
Which issues forth at pleasure, on all 
Occasions ? And I suppose that your deserted 
Spanish bride possessed the usual, artful. 
Melting trickeries of her sex, and used them on you. 

Sid. My lord, you d<I) outrage her 
Greatly.' And you have been the guilty cause 
Of my own wrong. Your counsel to me 
Was most base ; it was dishonorable ! 

Btick. Sir, I am not 
Used to language such as this. The king himself, 
Upon his throne, would 
Not presume to call me, or my d^eds, 



93 THE SPANISH WIPE. 

'Dishonorable.' 

Sid. Then I dare to call you so. 
I repeat, that had it not been for your 
Deceitful counsel, my own conscience had no^ 
Now been burdened with the guilt of a niost 
Cruel and most vile imposture. 

Buck. Well, sir, if such be your 
Estimate of me and my principles, as we so 
Greatly misunderstand each other, I will 
End our thankless intercourse ; and 
Eor the last time, I say to you, farewell. 

{Exit Buckingham^ r.) 

Sid. (solus.) He is gone ! Would to heaven that 
I ne'er had known him. From what a deep, 
Corroding canker had I been free, which 
Now does gnaw my vitals, as if I were a 
New Prometheus, rockbound, high amid 
The raging elements, suflfering the vulture 
Vengeance of the angry gods ! 

But hold ! A thought now strikes my fevered brain I 
Peace and repentance come by reparation. 
Yes, happy thought ! I yet may comfort her 
Afflicted neart. The pretext serves me well. 
Yes, I will do it. I will give it out, 
That, to dispel my sadness, — the true cause 
Whereof is hid from all the world, — I will 
Set forth upon my travels ; and then, with lightning 
Quickness will I speed my way to her beloved abode, 
And the same scenes which once beheld her 
Raptures and her wrongs, shall witness also 
My repentance, and her sudden joy. 
Oh ! 'tis a precious thought, nor would I fail in 
Its fulfilment, for all the treasures of the world. 

Enter Servant, l. 

Serv. My lord, a splendid equipage 
Has just advanced within the courtyard gates. 

Sid. See them conducted 
To the great saloon, I will myself wait 
On them there immediately. (Exit Servant.) 

This is doubtless some kind members of our 



THE SPANISH WIFE. 93 

Kindred, who would offer me, according 

To established, courteous custom, their friendly 

Sympathy. Did they but know my heart's 

True anguish, how vain, how worthless 

"Would their kindness seem, e'en 

To themselves ! Oh ! my injured, loving Laura, 

Worlds would I give, this hour, to press thee 

Now in these unworthy arms ! 

Scene III. — Palace of Sir William Sidney. Laura, Don 
Pedro, and Don Alfonso discovered. On Sidney's en- 
trance they rise. 

Enter Sir Sidney, l. {At sight of Laura he is startled 
and overcome for some moments with the utmost 
astonishment.) 

Lau. My lord, do you not know me ? 

Sid. Is this real? 
Or am I in a dream ? I am amazed ! 
Can this be Laura, the noble Spanish 
Lady, whom I knew in her own land ? 

Lau. It is the same, my lord. 
My brother here, has come as bearer of 
Despatches to the King of England, and I 
Have thus embraced the opportunity 
Tc accompany him. 

Sid. I greet you all most 
Heartily. You are most welcome. 

Lau. Oh, Sir William ! how have 
I wished to see this hour ! Your absence long 
Has filled ray heart with deepest sadness. 
I can never, never forget the past, 
And I have visited this distant clime to see 
You once again, and to dwell near you for 
A time, in hope that converse with you 
Might assuage my anguish ; give me 
Joy and peace again ; and then, alas I 
To say farewell, for ever ! 

(Alfonso and Pedro retire to rear and converse 
in dumb slww.) 

Sid, Noble woman 1 



94 THE SPANISH WIFE. 

I bless the god-like love and constancy, 

Which have impelled you to this step. 

I am, indeed, unworthy of such divine devotion. 

Ye titled sovereigns of a hundred realms, 

Who count you own the treasure of a world, 

Ye are not half so rich as I, the happy 

Owner of a heart, so fond, so changeless, 

And so true ! You are thrice welcome, 

And let me clasp unto my breast again 

That angel form which once was mine. 

In joys beyond the tongue of man. {they emhrace^ 

Thou art still as beautiful as ever ! 

Still hast thou yet the same sweet smile, 

The same fond, loving, trusting heart ! Oh, how 

Often have I thought of thee, as thus thou 

Beamest in immortal beauty, when 

Coursing o'er the pathless deep ; when sighing 

'Mid the glittering throng of rank and pride; 

In the midst of high yet heartless revelry ; 

And the midnight hour of silent thought 

And sadness. 

Lau. Hast thou, then, indeed, 
Remembered me ? Alas, I feared my 
Very name had long been buried by thee in oblivion. 
Oh ! how has my sad spirit cherished thy 
Beloved memory ! 

Sid. Canst thou forgive 
The crjnng wrong I did thee ? Oh, I have 
Sinned against thee too deeply to be forgiven. 

Lau. I have forgiven thee ! Yes, 
And I do still forgive thee, freely. I know 
That thou wert led astray by the fierce 
Madness of thy passion. I forgive thee ! 
And I love thee still ! 

Hid. Oh, thou God of Justice ! 
I thank thee, that thou dost give this 
Proffered opportunity of reparation. 
Know then, thou model of thy sex, 
Thou sum of every virtue, and every 
Loveliness; know that I may. yet redeem 
My tarnished honor; and that thy trusting 
Heart, which I once wronged, may now 



THE SPANISH WIFE. 95 

Be pillowed in eternal joy, upon another, 
As free, as faithful, as devoted as 
Thine own. 

Laic. What mean you ? 
That were, indeed, an extacy of bliss I ne'er 
Expected 'mid all my brightest reveries. 

Sid. Hear me : Since last I left thee, 
Sorrowing and deserted, in thy home, 
I myself have been bereaved by Providence. 
The wedded partner of my life has been 
Eemoved from earth, and now she slumbers in 
Her grave. I may now give thee that same 
Heart and hand which once I falsely plighted 
To thee, in thy home, now free, and freely 
And for ever thine. Wilt thou accept 
The unworthy offering ? 

Lau. Will I accept thee ? {rushes up and embraces him.) 
Yes. Thou art far more precious to me 
Than a princely diadem ! 

Sid. This very day, 
Despite all usual forms of decorous delay, 
I will conduct thee to the bridal altar. 
Thy matchless beauty heightened by thy tears ; 
And there thou shalt receive a heart 
Softened by repentance for the past, 
And tilled with new-born rapture, at 
The advent of this propitious hour. 

[AiuYOT^^o a7idl?Y.V)'SiO come fomvard. Ajle. l. (5*Ped» r.) 
Will these, our noble friends, my honored 
Guests, approve our purpose ? 

Alf. Thou hast won her love, 
And she is thine. 

Fed. Thou hast possession of 
Her heart ; justice demands her hand should 
Follow it. 

Sid. Oh, then, let Lethe's silent waters 
Wash away, in deep oblivion, all the 
Sad'ning memories of the past. From this 
Sweet hour let liie begin anew. 

Lau. Ah, my love, let us not 
Forget the past. Its mingled scenes of 
Rapture and of wo, will make our future 



96 THE SPANISH WIFE. 

Bliss more lasting and intense. 

Sid. Oh ! the unequalled 
Constancy of woman's love ! Time may revolve 
Its ever-changing rounds: Empires and kingdoms 
May ascend to grandeur, and may crumble 
To their native dust again. The power 
Of high and stern ambition may dissolve 
Away. The eager hand of avarice 
May loose its iron grasp. All human passions 
May grow faint and weak. But woman's love, 
If it be genuine love, once rooted in the breast, 
Remains as quenchless and immortal 
As the undying essence of the soul ! 

THE END. 



POSITIONS AT THE FALL OF THE CURTAIN. 
Pedro. Laura. Sidney. ALFONSOr 



THE MINOR DRAMA, 



TOL. V. 

3. Coikiiies ia California. 

4. Who Speaks First. 

5. Bombastes Furioeo. 
Macbeth Travestie. 
The Irish Ambassador. 
Deiicnte Ground 
The Weailiercnck: 
All ihai GiiUfih is noi Gold. 

With a Portrait and Memoir }i 
Mr.W. A.GOODALL. 

VOL. VI. 

Gri mshaw. Bagshaw, and 
Bradt-haw. 

Rough Diamond. 

Bloomer Costume*. 

Two Bonnvcastje.q 
45. Born to Good Luck. 
'U]. Kiss in the Dark. 

47. 'Tv.'ou'<l Puzzle a Conjuror. 

48. Kill or Cui<* 
Willi a Portrait and Memoir of 

F. M. KENT. 

VOL. VII. 

I 49. Box and Cox Married and Settled. 
50. St. Cupid. 
; 51. Oo-to-bed Tom. 
{ 52, The Lawyers. 



41. 

43. 
41 



VOL. I. 

1. The L-ish Attorney. 

2. Boots at the Swan. 

3. How to Pay the Rent. 

4. The Loan of a Lover. 

5. The Dead Shot. 

6. His Last Legs. 

7. The Invisibln rnnce. 

8. The Golden K^iruier. 
With a Portraii and Memoir of 

MR. JOHN SKFTON. 

ViiL. II. 

9. The Tritie oi the Market. 

10. Used Up. 

11. The Irish Tutor. 

12. The Barrack Ruom. 

13. Luke the Lalioia-er." 

14. Beauiy and ihe ^cu^i 
1.5. St. Patrick's" Eve. 
16 Captain of the Watch. 

With a Poi-iniit and Memoir of 
MISS C. WF.MVSS. 

VOL. III. 

17. The Secret. 

18. White Horse oi the Peppers. 

19. The Jacobite. 

20. The iioitJt.-. 

21. Box ai d Cox. 

22. Ba lioozlinar. ^ 

23. W 'ow'fj Vj'jtim. 

24. ii bert Macaire. 

With a Portrait and Memoir of 
MR. F. S. CHANFEAU. ! 

VOL. IV. j 

25. Secj-e1 Service. j 

26. The Omnih.ir,. ! 

27. The Irish Lion. l 
2P.. Thtf !\I;jld of Croissey. ! 

29. The Uid Guard. ! 

30. Raising ihe Witi<i \ 

31. Slasher and Crasher. | 

32. Naval Engagements. { 
With a Portrrdt ^ud Momnir < f 

MESS ROSK TSLBIN. 1 

Price. 12 1-2 Cevfs eurh.— Bound Volumes, $1.00. 
Illj* On a remittance of One Dollnr, free of postage, Ten cop- 
ies of any dT the Plays will be sent by mail. 

fVM. TA YLORi^' CO., 18 Ann-Street. 



r 



MODERN STAN 

Price 12 1-2 Cents each.- 



VOL. 1. 

1. Ion. 

2. Fazio. 

3 The Lady of Lyons. 

4. Richelieu. 

5. The Wifo. 

6. The Honey Moon. 

7. The School for Scan- 

fViih n Portrttit and 
Memoir ,,/• \irs A C 
MOfVJTT. 

VOL. il 

9. Tht J^trhMa^fr. 
10. Graiiduuhcr White- 
head. 
IL Richard III 

12. Lot'e's Sacrifice. 

13. Thf Gari)(i.>«ier. ' 

14 A C>ire (or ihe n«ari 

arh.-^. 

15 Tl... li.jnchl.ark 

1(5. f)oD CtPMir f>«' nazjsr 
iVith a rortraii cvd Me- 
moir of Mr. CHARLES 
KEAJS. 

vol.. in. 
.7. The Poor Gentleman. 

18. Hamlet. 

19. CharleelL 

20. Venice Preserved. 

21. Pizarro, 

22. The Love-Chase. 

23. Othello. 

24. Lend Me Five Shil- 

lings. 
With a Portrait and 
Memoir cf Mr. tV. E. 
BURTON. 

L. IV. 

25. Virflnius. 

26. The King of the Com- 

mons. 

27. London Assurance. 

28. The Rent-Day. 

29. Two Gentlemen of 

Verona. 

30. The Jealoua Wife. 

31. The Rivals. 

32. Perfection. 

JVitk a Portrait and 
Memoir of Mr. J. H. 
IjAGKETT. 



33 



vol,. 

A New \V 




016 

Old Dobte. 
34. Look Before You Leap. 
15. Kins Jfihn. 
I.). Tlip iWirvous Man. 

37. Danjon and Pythias. 

38. The Clandostinp Mar- 



>•:» William Tfll. 
,'0 Tlifi Day After the 
VVf dding. 
With a Fortran avd 
Memoir of U COL MAIS 
the FJihr. 

VOL VI. 

41. Speed the Plough. 

42. Romeo and Juliet. 

43. Feudal Times. 

M. Chnrl.'s rh-iTwclflh 
-is. The Briilal. 

46. Th»^FolliesofalVight. 

47. The Iron ClieM. 

48 Fuiut Heart xNcvpr 
•> 'in Fait Lady. 
With a Portrait and Me- 
moir of Sir E. B UL tVER 
LkTTOH. 

VOL. VII. 

49. iload to Ruin. 

50. Wacbech. 

51. Temper. 

52. Evaiino. 

53. Bertram. 

54. The Duenna. 

55. Much Ado AboutNoth- 
iug. 

56. The Critic. 

With a Portrait and 
Memoir of R. B, SHERI- 
DAN. 

VOL. VIIL 

57. The Apostate. 

58. Twelfth Night. 

59. Brutus. 

60. Simpson & Co. 

61. Merchant of Venice. 
6i. Old Heads and Young 

Hearts. 

63. Mountaineers. 

64. Three Weeks After 
Marriage. 

With a Portrait and 
Memoir of Mr. GEO. U. 
BARRETT. 



66. As You Like It. 

67. The Elder Brether. 

68. Werner. 

69. Gisippup. 

70. Town and Country 

71. Kins Lear. 

72 FUje Devils. 

With a Portrait and 
Memoir oj Mrs. SUA W. 

VOL. X. 

73 H.MiryVlII. 

74. Married aiid Single. 

75. Henry IV. 

76. Paul Pry. 

77. Guy Mannering. 

78. Sweethearts &. Wives 
79 The Serious Family. 

80. She Stoops to Con 

<;«rr. 
With a Portrait and 
Memoir of Mi«a Off All' 
LOTTK CUSUMAN. 

VOL XT. 

81. Julius Ccpsar. 

82. Vicar of Wakefield. 

83. Leap Year. 
81. The Catspaw. 

85. The Passing Cloud 
S3. The Drunkard. 
87. Rob Roy. 
83. George Bamwell. 

With a Portrait arid 
Memoir of Mrs. JOUii 
SEFTON. 

VOL. SH. 

89. In!»omar. 

90. Sketches in India. 

91. The Two Friendu. 
92 Jane Snore. 

93. Corsican Brothers. 

94. Mind your own Busi- 
ncss. 

9.*). Writing on tho Wall, 

96. Heir at Law. 

With a Portrait and 
Memoir of TUGS. S. 
UAMBLtN. 

VOL. rill. 

97. Soldier's Daughter. 

98. Iiouglas. 

99. Marco Spada. 

100. Nature's Noble m'n 

102. Sardanapalus. 

103. Civilization. 



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